Neither Minerva nor the learned Muse, Nor rules of Art, nor precepts of the wise; Could in my braine those beames of skill infuse, As but the glance of this Dame's angry eyes.
She within lists my ranging minde hath brought, That now beyond my selfe I list not goe; My selfe am center of my circling thought, Only my selfe I studie, learne, and know.
I know my bodie's of so fraile a kind, As force without, feavers within can kill; I know the heauenly nature of my minde, But 'tis corrupted both in wit and will:
I KNOW my Soule hath power to know all things, Yet is she blinde and ignorant in all; I know I am one of Nature's little kings, Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall.
I know my life's a paine and but a span, I know my Sense is mockt with every thing: And to conclude, I know myself a Man, Which is a proud, and yet a wretched thing.