 | The Workes of Benjamin Jonson |  |
217
[Soft, subtill fire, thou soule of Art]
Cyclope.
Soft
, subtill fire, thou soule of Art,
Now doe thy part
On weaker Nature, that through age is lamed.
Take but thy time, now shee is old,
And the Sunne her friend growne cold,
Shee will no more, in strife with thee be named.
Now doe thy part
On weaker Nature, that through age is lamed.
Take but thy time, now shee is old,
And the Sunne her friend growne cold,
Shee will no more, in strife with thee be named.
Looke, but how few confesse her now,
In cheeke or brow!
From every head, almost, how she is frighted!
The very age abhorres her so,
That it learnes to speak and goe
As if by art alone it could be righted.
In cheeke or brow!
From every head, almost, how she is frighted!
The very age abhorres her so,
That it learnes to speak and goe
As if by art alone it could be righted.
| The Workes of Benjamin Jonson | |