3 Sure mighty Love, foreseeing the descent Of this poor creature, by a gracious art Hid in these low things snares to gain his heart, And laid surprises in each element. 4 All things here show him heaven; waters that fall Chide and fly up; mists of corruptest foam Quit their first beds and mount; trees, herbs, flowers, all Strive upwards still, and point him the way home. 5 How do they cast off grossness? only earth And man, like Issachar, in loads delight, Water's refined to motion, air to light, Fire to all three,[1] but man hath no such mirth. 6 Plants in the root with earth do most comply, Their leaves with water and humidity, The flowers to air draw near and subtilty, And seeds a kindred fire have with the sky. 7 All have their keys and set ascents; but man Though he knows these, and hath more of his own, Sleeps at the ladder's foot; alas! what can These new discoveries do, except they drown? 8 Thus, grovelling in the shade and darkness, he Sinks to a dead oblivion; and though all He sees, like pyramids, shoot from this ball, And lessening still, grow up invisibly, 9 Yet hugs he still his dirt; the stuff he wears, And painted trimming, takes down both his eyes; Heaven hath less beauty than the dust he spies, And money better music than the spheres. 10 Life's but a blast; he knows it; what? shall straw And bulrush-fetters temper his short hour? Must he nor sip nor sing? grows ne'er a flower To crown his temples? shall dreams be his law? 11 O foolish man! how hast thou lost thy sight? How is it that the sun to thee alone Is grown thick darkness, and thy bread a stone? Hath flesh no softness now? mid-day no light? 12 Lord! thou didst put a soul here. If I must Be broke again, for flints will give no fire Without a steel, oh, let thy power clear Thy gift once more, and grind this flint to dust! [1] 'All three:' light, motion, heat THE WORLD. 1 I saw eternity the other night, Like a great ring of pure and endless light, All calm, as it was bright; And round beneath it, time, in hours, days, years, Driven by the spheres, Like a vast shadow moved, in which the world And all her train were hurled. The doting lover in his quaintest strain Did there complain; Near him, his lute, his fancy, and his flights, Wit's sour delights; With gloves, and knots, the silly snares of pleasure, Yet his dear treasure, All scattered lay, while he his eyes did pour Upon a flower.