 | Poesis Rediviva |  |
Of the Blood.
Poets feign Phœbus blushing sets in red,While he descends down to his watery bed.
Sure in these purple streams the Sun doth glide,
And in his Crimson Chariot blushing ride,
While he doth circle through the lesser world,
Through veins of earth in strange Meanders curl'd.
Now in a full tide channels doth disdain,
Flows into flesh, and then ebbs back again.
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Spirit, and innate heat are nought from hence.
Distinct from Blood, who can the Soul ought call;
'Tis all in every part, and all in all.
Though Nature seems restor'd by Cock-white-broth,
It is a Sun beam Chariots in the froth.
Thus man can't get a man, unlesse the Sun
Club to the act of Generation.
'Tis light is life; 't may place change, never dies,
And by its nature onely multiplies.
How of the body is the Soul the act,
When without it no body is compact?
Do we our senses borrow from the brain,
When before it our senses do remain?
Or is the heart or liver shops of blood,
When before either is a purple flood?
Here is that Plato's, here that vestal fire
Kindled by Sun-beams, which can ne're expire,
Take away heat, 'tis Cruor and not blood,
Streams of impurities issue with this flood:
O use into flesh, and out by Ulcers run:
Yet ne're were blood, no nature took from th' sun.
Though blood-shews like a heat enamell'd cloud,
Corruption with discolouring don't shrowd.
Lord, what is man thou should'st thus mindeful be?
Placing in him this tutelar Deity.
Water and Earth poor man, at best but mud;
By th' quickning ray of heav'n turn'd flesh and blood,
When thou but tak'st of heav'n this light away,
That which before was flesh and blood, is clay.
Gods Tabenacle thus plac'd in the Sun,
That Giant races must with th' whole world run.
| Poesis Rediviva | |