Classic Poem

What is this knowledge? but the Skie-stolne fire,
For which the Thiefe still chaind in Ice doth sit?
And which the poore rude Satyre did admire,
And needs would kisse, but burnt his lips with it?

What is it? but the cloud emptie of Raine,
Which when Joves Guest embrac't, he Monsters got?
Or the false Pailes, which oft being fild with paine,
Receiv'd the water, but retain'd it not?

Shortly what is it? but the fierie Coach
Which the Youth sought, and sought his death withall?
Or the Boyes wings, which when he did approch
The Sunnes hote beames, did melt and let him fall?

And yet, alas, when all our Lampes are burnd,
Our Bodies wasted, and our Spirits spent,
When we have all the learned Volumes turnd,
Which yeeld mens wits both helpe, and ornament;

What can we know? or what can we discerne?
When Error chokes the windowes of the mind;
The diverse formes of things how can we learne,
That have bene ever from our birth-day blind?

When Reasons lampe which like the Sunne in skie,
Throughout Mans litle world her beams did spread,
Is now become a Sparkle, which doth lie
Under the Ashes, halfe extinct and dead:

How can we hope, that through the Eye and Eare,
This dying Sparkle, in this cloudie place
Can recollect those beames of knowledge cleare,
Which were enfus'd, in the first minds by grace?

All things without, which round about we see,
We seeke to know, and have therewith to do:
But that whereby we reason, live, and be,
Within our selves, we strangers are theretoo.

We seeke to know the moving of each Spheare,
And the straunge cause of th'ebs and flouds of Nile:
But of that clocke, which in our breasts we beare,
The subtill motions, we forget the while.

We that acquaint our selves with every Zoane,
And passe both Tropikes, and behold both Poles;
When we come home, are to our selves unknowne,
And unacquainted still with our owne Soules.

We studie Speech; but others we perswade;
We Leech-craft learne, but others Cure with it;
We'interpret Lawes, which other men have made,
But reade not those, which in our harts are writ:

I know my Bodi's of so fraile a kinde,
As force without, feavers within can kill;
I know the heavenly nature of my mind,
But tis corrupted both in wit and will:

I know my Soule hath power to know all things,
Yet is she blind and ignorant in all;
I know I'am one of Natures litle kings,
Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall.

I know my life's a paine, and but a span,
I know my Sense is mockt with every thing;
And to conclude, I know my selfe a Man,
Which is a proud and yet a wretched thing.