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Tast of Poëtique rage, or flattery,
And need not, where all hearts one truth professe;
Oft from new proofes, and new phrase, new doubts grow,
As strange attire aliens the men wee know.
Leaving then busie praise, and all appeale,
To higher Courts, senses decree is true,
The Mine, the Magazine, the Commonweale,
The story of beauty', in Twicknam is, and you.
Who hath seene one, would both; As, who had bin
In Paradise, would seeke the Cherubin.
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'd
To'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;

[CW: Can]