For of Meridians, and Parallels, Man hath weav'd out a net, and this net throwne Upon the Heavens, and now they are his owne. 280 Loth to goe up the hill, or labour thus To goe to heaven, we make heaven come to us. We spur, we reine the starres, and in their race They're diversly content t'obey our pace. But keepes the earth her round proportion still? 285 Doth not a Tenarif, or higher Hill Rise so high like a Rocke, that one might thinke The floating Moone would shipwracke there, and sinke? Seas are so deepe, that Whales being strooke to day, Perchance to morrow, scarse at middle way 290 Of their wish'd journies end, the bottome, die. And men, to sound depths, so much line untie, As one might justly thinke, that there would rise At end thereof, one of th'Antipodies: If under all, a Vault infernall bee, 295 (Which sure is spacious, except that we Invent another torment, that there must Millions into a straight hot roome be thrust) Then solidnesse, and roundnesse have no place. Are these but warts, and pock-holes in the face 300 Of th'earth? Thinke so: but yet confesse, in this The worlds proportion disfigured is; [Sidenote: _Disorder in the world._] That those two legges whereon it doth rely, Reward and punishment are bent awry. And, Oh, it can no more be questioned, 305 That beauties best, proportion, is dead, Since even griefe it selfe, which now alone Is left us, is without proportion. Shee by whose lines proportion should bee Examin'd, measure of all Symmetree, 310 Whom had that Ancient seen, who thought soules made Of Harmony, he would at next have said That Harmony was shee, and thence infer, That soules were but Resultances from her, And did from her into our bodies goe, 315 As to our eyes, the formes from objects flow: Shee, who if those great Doctors truly said That the Arke to mans proportions was made, Had been a type for that, as that might be A type of her in this, that contrary 320 Both Elements, and Passions liv'd at peace In her, who caus'd all Civill war to cease. Shee, after whom, what forme so'er we see, Is discord, and rude incongruitie; Shee, shee is dead, shee's dead; when thou knowst this 325 Thou knowst how ugly a monster this world is: And learn'st thus much by our Anatomie, That here is nothing to enamour thee: And that, not only faults in inward parts, Corruptions in our braines, or in our hearts, 330 Poysoning the fountaines, whence our actions spring, Endanger us: but that if every thing Be not done fitly'and in proportion, To satisfie wise, and good lookers on, (Since most men be such as most thinke they bee) 335