The Flea, Though He Kill None, He

Man Hath Weaved Out A Net, And This Net Throwne Upon The Heavens, And Now They Are His Own.

Women Are Like The Arts, Forced Unto None, Open To All Searchers, Unprized, If Unknown.

Men Are Sponges, Which, To Pour Out, Receive; Who Know False Play, Rather Than Lose, Deceive. For In Best Understandings Sin Began, Angels Sinn'd First, Then Devils, And Then Man. Only Perchance Beasts Sin Not ; Wretched We Are Beasts In All But White Integrity.

O How Feeble Is Man's Power, That If Good Fortune Fall, Cannot Add Another Hour, Nor A Lost Hour Recall!

. . . Change Is The Nursery Of Musicke, Joy, Life And Eternity.