Classic Poem

Well did the Prophet ask, Lord what is Man?
Emplying by the quæstion none can
But God resolve the doubt, much lesse define
What Elements this Child of Dust combine.
Man is a straunger to himself, and knowes
Nothing so naturally as his Woes.
He loves to travaile Countryes, and confer
The Sides of Heaven's vast diameter:
Delights to sitt in Nile' or Bætis' Lapp
Before he hath sayl'd over his owne Mapp;
By which meanes he returnes, his travaile spent,
Lesse knowing of himself then when he went.
Who knowledge hunt kept under forraigne Locks
May bring home witt to hold a Paradoxe,
Yet be Fooles still. Therfore might I advise
I would informe the Soule before the Eyes:
Make Man into his proper Opticks look,
And so become the Student and the Book.
With his Conception, his first Leaf, begin:
What is he there but complicated Sin?
When riper Time, and the approaching Birth
Rankes him among the Creatures of the Earth,
His wayling Mother sends him forth to greet
The Light, wrapt in a bloudy winding Sheet,
As if he came into the World to crave
No place to dwell in, but bespeak a Grave.
Thus like a red and Tempest boading Morne
His dawning is: For being newly borne
He hayles th'ensuing Storme with Shriekes and Cryes,
And fines for his Admission with wett Eyes.
How should that Plant whose Leaf is bath'd in Teares
Beare but a bitter fruit in Elder Yeares?
Just such is his: and his maturer age
Teemes with event more sad then the præsage.
For view him higher, when his Childhood's Span
Is raised up to Youthe's Meridian;
When he goes proudly laden with the fruit
Which health or strength or beauty contribute;
Yet as the mounted Cannon batters downe
The Towres and goodly Structures of a Towne:
So one short Sicknesse will his Force defeat,
And his fraile Cittadell to rubbish beat.
How does a Dropsy melt him to a Flood,
Making each Veine run Water more then Blood?
A Cholick wracks him like a Northerne gust,
And raging Feavers crumble him to Dust.
In which unhappy State he is made worse
By his Diseases then his Maker's Curse.
God sayd in toyle and sweat he should earne Bread,
And without Labour not be nourished.
Here, though, like ropes of falling Dew, his Sweat
Hangs on his lab'ring Brow, he cannot eat.
Thus are his Sins scourg'd in opposed themes,
And Luxuryes reveng'd by their Extreames.
He who in health could never be content
With Rarityes fetcht from each Element,
Is now much more afflicted to delight
His tastlesse Palate, and lost Appetite.
Besides though God ordain'd that with the Light
Man should begin his Work; Yet Hee made Night
For his repose, in which the weary Sense
Repaires it self by Rest's soft recompence.
But now his watchfull Nights and troubled Dayes
Confused heapes of Feare and Phant'sy raise.
His Chamber seemes a loose and trembling Mine;
His Pillow quilted with a Porcupine:
Paine makes his downy Couch sharp thornes appeare,
And ev'ry Feather prick him like a Speare.
Thus when all formes of Death about him keep,
Hee Coppyes Death in any forme but Sleep.
Poore walking Clay! hast thou a mind to know
To what unblest Beginnings thou dost owe
Thy wretched self? Fall sick awhile, and than
Thou wilt conceave the Pedigree of Man.
Learne shalt thou from thine owne Anatomye,
That Earth his Mother, Wormes his Sisters bee.
That hee's a short-liv'd Vapour upward wrought,
And by Corruption unto nothing brought.
A Stagg'ring Meteor by crosse Plannets beat,
Which often reeles and falles before his Sett.
A Tree which withers faster then it growes;
A Torch puff't out by ev'ry Wind that blowes:
A Web of Fourty Weelkes spun forth in paine,
And in a moment ravell'd out againe.
This is the Modell of fraile Man. Then say
That his duration's only for a Day:
And in that Day more fitts of Changes passe
Then Atomes run in the turn'd Hower-glasse.
So that th'Incessant Cares which Life invade
Might for strong Truth their Hæresy perswade
Who did maintaine that humane Soules are sent
Into the Body for their Punishment:
At least with that Greek Sage still make us cry,
Not to be Borne, or being Borne, to Dy.
But Faith steares up to a more glorious scope,
Which sweetens our sharp passage: And firme Hope
Anchors our torne Barkes on a Blessed Shoare,
Beyond the Dead Sea wee here ferry o're.
To this Death is our Pilott, and Disease
The Agent which solicitts our release.
Though Crosses then powre on my restlesse head,
Or lingring Sicknes nayle mee to my bed:
Let this my Thoughte's Eternall Comfort bee,
That my Clos'd Eyes a Better Light shall see.
And when by Fortune's or by Nature's stroak
My Bodye's Earthen Pitcher must be broke,
My Soule, Like Gideon's Lamp, from her crack't Urne
Shall Death's black Night to Endlesse Luster turne.