So might the heir, whose father hath in play Wasted a thousand pounds of ancient rent, By painful earning of one groat a day, Hope to restore the patrimony spent. The wits that dived most deep, and soared most high, Seeking man's powers, have found his weakness such; "Skill comes so slow, and life so fast doth fly; We learn so little, and forget so much." For this, the wisest of all moral men Said, _He knew nought, but that he nought did know!_ And the great mocking Master, mocked not then, When he said, _Truth was buried deep below!_ For how may we, to other's things attain, When none of us, his own Soul understands? For which, the Devil mocks our curious brain, When, _Know thyself!_ his oracle commands. For why should we the busy Soul believe, When boldly she concludes of that and this? When of herself, she can no judgement give, Nor How, nor Whence, nor Where, nor What she is? All things without, which round about we see, We seek to know, and have therewith to do; But that, whereby we Reason, Live, and Be, Within ourselves, we strangers are thereto. We seek to know the moving of each sphere, And the strange cause of th' ebbs and floods of Nile; But of that Clock, which in our breasts we bear, The subtle motions we forget the while! We that acquaint ourselves with every zone, And pass both tropics, and behold both poles; When we come home, are to ourselves unknown And unacquainted still with our own souls! We study Speech, but others we persuade; We Leechcraft learn, but others cure with it; We interpret Laws which other men have made, But read not those which in our hearts are writ. Is it because the Mind is like the Eye, (Through which it gathers knowledge by degrees) Whose rays reflect not but spread outwardly, Not seeing itself, when other things it sees? No, doubtless, for the Mind can backward cast Upon herself, her understanding light; But she is so corrupt, and so defac't, As her own image doth herself affright. As in the fable of that Lady fair, Which, for her lust, was turned into a cow; When thirsty to a stream she did repair, And saw herself transformed (she wist not how;) At first, she startles! then, she stands amazed! At last, with terror, she from thence doth fly, And loathes the wat'ry glass wherein she gazed, And shuns it still, though she for thirst do die. Even so, Man's Soul, which did God's Image bear, And was, at first, fair, good, and spotless pure; Since with her sins, her beauties blotted were, Doth, of all sights, her own sight least endure.