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The Discovery of the Little World, with the government thereof. By Iohn Davies
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Mans soule (th' Idea of our Makers mould)
Whiles it doth harbour in this house of clay,
Is so ore-whelm'd with passions manifold,
Is so ore-throwne with Adams olde decay:
That much like bastard Eagle, dimme of sight,
It dares not take a view of Reasons light.
O then, redoubled thankes deserues thy VVorke,
Whose Verse Prometheus-like striues to enflame
That sacred Sparke, which in our Soules doth lurke,
Giving blinde Reason eies to see the same:
Davies, thine Arte beyond our Arte doth reach,
For thou each Soule, soule-humbling Arte dost teach:
Thus Oxford Artists are oblig'd to thee,
Who, Stork-like building heere a while thy Nest,
For Earthly Lodge dost leaue an heav'nly fee,
Giving a Sword to kill that foe of Rest,
Faire learnings blott, which Scollers know to well,
I mean, Self-loue, which thy Self-arte doth quell.
Dovglas Castilion.