To Sr Edward Herbert. At Iulyers

Man is a lumpe, where all beasts kneaded bee,Wisdome makes him an Arke where all agree;The foole, in whom these beasts do live at jarre,Is sport to others, and a Theater;Nor scapes hee so, but is himselfe their prey,All which was man in him, is eate away,And now his beasts on one another feed,Yet couple'in anger, and new monsters breed.How happy'is hee, which hath due place assign'dTo'his beasts, and disaforested his minde!Empail'd himselfe to keepe them out, not in;Can sow, and dares trust corne, where they have bin;Can use his horse, goate, wolfe, and every beast,And is not Asse himselfe to all the rest.Else, man not onely is the heard of swine,But he's those devills too, which did inclineThem to a headlong rage, and made them worse:For man can adde weight to heavens heaviest curse.As Soules (they say) by our first touch, take inThe poysonous tincture of Originall sinne,So, to the punishments which God doth fling,Our apprehension contributes the sting.To us, as to his chickins, he doth castHemlocke, and wee as men, his hemlocke taste;We do infuse to what he meant for meat,Corrosivenesse, or intense cold or heat.For, God no such specifique poyson hathAs kills we know not how; his fiercest wrathHath no antipathy, but may be goodAt lest for physicke, if not for our food.Thus man, that might be'his pleasure, is his rod,And is his devill, that might be his God.Since then our businesse is, to rectifieNature, to what she was, wee'are led awryBy them, who man to us in little show;Greater then due, no forme we can bestowOn him; for Man into himselfe can drawAll; All his faith can swallow,'or reason chaw.All that is fill'd, and all that which doth fill,All the round world, to man is but a pill,In all it workes not, but it is in allPoysonous, or purgative, or cordiall,For, knowledge kindles Calentures in some,And is to others icy Opium.As brave as true, is that profession thanWhich you doe use to make; that you know man.This makes it credible; you have dwelt uponAll worthy bookes, and now are such an one.Actions are authors, and of those in youYour friends finde every day a mart of new.