|
Hath no antipathy, but may be good |
At least for physick, if not for our food. |
Thus man, that might be his pleasure, is his rod, |
And is his devil, that might be his God. |
Since then our business is* to rectifie |
Nature, to what she was; we're led awrie |
By them, who man to us in little show; |
Greater than due, no form we can bestow |
On him; for man into himself can draw |
All; 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 works not, but it is in all |
Poysonous, or Purgative, or cordiall. |
For, knowledge kindles Calentures in some, |
And is to others icy Opium. |
As brave as true, is that profession than |
Which you do use to make; that you know man. |
This makes it credible, you have dwelt upon |
All worthy books; and now are such an one. |
Actions are Authors, and of those in you |
Your friends find every day a mart of new. |
|
To the Countess of Bedford. |
|
T'have written then* when you writ, seem'd to me |
Worst of spiritual vices, Simony: |
And not t'have written then, seems little less |
Than worst of civil vices, thankelsness.* |
In this, my debt I seem'd loth to confess, |
In that, I seem'd to shun beholdingness: |
But 'tis not so. Nothing as I am, may* |
Pay all they have, and yet have all to pay.
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[CW: Such] |