My God, I heard this day
That none doth build a stately habitation
But he that means
to dwell therein.
What house more
stately hath there been,
Or can be, than is man, to whose creation
All things are in decay?
For man is every thing,
And more: he is a tree, yet bears more
fruit;
A beast, yet is, or
should be, more;
Reason and
speech we only bring;
Parrots may thank us if they are not mute,
They go upon the score.
Man is
all symmetry,
Full of proportions, one limb to another,
And all to
all the world besides;
Each part may call the
furthest brother,
For head with foot hath private amity,
And
both with moons and tides.
Nothing hath got so far
But man hath caught and kept it as his prey;
His eyes dismount the highest
star;
He is in
little all the sphere;
Herbs gladly cure our flesh, because
that they
Find
their acquaintance there.
For us
the winds do blow,
The earth doth rest, heaven move, and fountains flow.
Nothing we see but means our
good,
As our delight, or as our
treasure;
The whole is either our cupboard of food,
Or
cabinet of pleasure.
The
stars have us to bed;
Night draws the curtain, which the sun withdraws;
Music and light attend our
head;
All things unto our flesh are
kind
In their descent and being; to our mind
In
their ascent and cause.
Each
thing is full of duty;
Waters united are our navigation;
Distinguished, our habitation;
Below, our drink; above, our
meat;
Both are our cleanliness. Hath one
such beauty?
Then
how are all things neat!
More
servants wait on man
Than he'll take notice of; in every
path
He treads down that which doth
befriend him,
When sickness makes him pale
and wan.
Oh mighty love! Man is one world, and hath
Another to attend him.
Since
then, my God, thou hast
So brave a palace built, O dwell in it,
That it may dwell with thee at
last!
Till then, afford us so much
wit,
That, as the world serves us, we may serve thee,
And
both thy servants be.
