L.

And whether by this change she lose or win, She comes out next, where the Ape would have gone in.

Adam and Eve had mingled bloods, and now,

Like Chymique's equal fires, her temperate womb
Had stewed and formed it: and part did become
A spongy liver, that did richly allow,

Like a free conduit on a high hill's brow,
Life-keeping moisture unto every part;
Part hardened itself to a thicker heart,
Whose busy furnaces life's spirits do impart.

LI.

Another part became the well of sense, The tender well-armed feeling brain, from whence Those sinew-strings, which do our bodies tie, Are ravelled out; and, fast there by one end, Did this soul limbs, these limbs a soul attend; And now they joined, keeping some quality Of every past shape; she knew treachery, Rapine, deceit, and lust, and ills enough To be a woman: Themech she is now, Sister and wife to Cain, Cain, that first did plough.

LII.

Whoe'er thou beʼst, that read'st this sullen writ, Which just so much courts thee, as thou dost it, Let me arrest thy thoughts; wonder with me Why ploughing, building, ruling, and the rest,

Or most of those arts, whence our lives are blest,
By cursed Cain's race invented be,
And blest Seth vext us with astronomy.
There's nothing simply good nor ill alone,
Of every quality comparison

The only measure is, and judge, opinion.

THE END OF THE PROGRESS OF THE SOUL.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

SONGS AND SONNETS.

THE FLEA.

MARK but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is;
Me it sucked first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be;
Confess it.* This cannot be said

A sin, or shame, or loss of maidenhead,
Yet this enjoys, before it woo,

And pampered swells with one blood made of two,

And this, alas! is more than we could do.

Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare,
Where we almost, nay, more than married are.
This flea is you and I, and this

Our marriage-bed, and marriage-temple is ;
Though parents grudge, and you, we are met,
And cloistered in these living walls of jet.
Though use make you apt to kill me,

*Ed. 1635. Thou know'st that.