SIR JOHN DAVIES.

FALSE AND TRUE KNOWLEDGE.

WHY did my parents send me to the schools, That I with knowledge might enrich my mind, Since the desire to know first made men fools, And did corrupt the root of all mankind?

For when God's hand had written in the hearts
Of our first parents all the rules of good,
So that their skill infus'd surpass'd all arts
That ever were, before or since the flood;

And when their reason's eye was sharp and clear,
And, as an eagle can behold the sun,
Could have approach'd th' eternal light as near
As the intellectual angels could have done;

Ev'n then to them the spirit of lies suggests,
That they were blind, because they saw not ill;
And breath'd into their incorrupted breasts

A curious wish, which did corrupt their will.

From that same ill, they straight desir'd to know;
Which ill being naught but a defect of good,
In all God's works the devil could not show,
While man, their lord, in his perfection stood :

So that themselves were first to do the ill,
Ere they thereof the knowledge could attain;
Like him that knew not poison's power to kill,
Until, by tasting it, himself was slain.

Ev'n so, by tasting of that fruit forbid,

Where they sought knowledge, they did error find;

Ill they desir'd to know, and ill they did;

And, to give passion eyes, made reason blind;

For then their minds did first in passion see
Those wretched shapes of misery and woe,
Of nakedness, of shame, of poverty,

Which then their own experience made them

know.

But then grew reason dark, that she no more Could the fair forms of good and truth dis

cern;

Bats they became, who eagles were before,
And this they got by their desire to learn.

But we, their wretched offspring, what do we?
Do not we still taste of the fruit forbid,
While with fond fruitless curiosity,

In books profane we seek for knowledge hid ?

What is this knowledge, but the sky-stol'n fire, For which the thief' still chain'd in ice doth

sit;

And which the poor rude satyr did admire, And needs would kiss, but burnt his lips with it?

Prometheus.

" See Æsop's Fables.

What is it, but the cloud of empty rain,

Which when Jove's guest' embrac'd he monsters got?

Or the false pails, which oft being fill'd with pain, Receiv'd the water, but retain'd it not?

In fine, what is it but the fiery coach,

3

Which the youth sought, and sought his death withal?

Or the boy's wings, which when he did approach The sun's hot beams, did melt and let him fall?

And yet, alas! when all our lamps are burn'd,
Our bodies wasted and our spirits spent;
When we have all the learned volumes turn'd,
Which yield men's wits both help and ornament;

What can we know or what can we discern, When error clouds the windows of the mind? The divers forms of things how can we learn, That have been ever from our birth-day blind?

When reason's lamp, which, like the sun in sky, Throughout man's little world her beams did spread,

Is now become a sparkle, which doth lie

Under the ashes, half extinct and dead;

How can we hope that through the

eye

and ear,

This dying sparkle, in this cloudy place, Can recollect those beams of knowledge clear, Which were infus'd in the first minds by grace?

So might the heir, whose father hath in play
Wasted a thousand pounds of ancient rent,

1 Ixion.

2 The Danaïdes. 3 Phaeton. 4 Icarus.

By painful earning of one groat a day,
Hope to restore the patrimony spent.

The wits that div'd most deep, and soar'd most high,

Seeking man's powers, have found his weakness such:

Skill comes so slow, and life so fast doth fly;
We learn so little, and forget so much:

For this the wisest of all moral men

Said, he knew naught, but that he nought did know;

And the great mocking master mock'd not then,
When he said, truth was buried here below.

For how may we to other things attain,

When none of us his own soul understands? For which the devil mocks our curious brain, When-Know thyself, his oracle commands.

For why should we the busy soul believe,

When boldly she concludes of that and this; When of herself she can no judgment give, Nor how, nor whence, nor where, nor what she is?

All things without, which round about we see,
We seek to know, and how therewith to do:
But that whereby we reason, live, and be,
Within ourselves, we strangers are thereto.

We seek to know the moving of each sphere,
And the strange cause o' th' ebbs and floods of

Nile;

But of that clock which in our breasts we bear,

The subtle motions we forget the while.

We that acquaint ourselves with every zone,
And pass both tropics, and behold both poles;
When we come home, are to ourselves unknown,
And unacquainted still with our own souls.

We study speech, but others we persuade;
We leech-craft learn, but others cure with it:
We interpret laws which other men have made,
But read not those which in our hearts are
writ.

Is it because the mind is like the eye,

Through which it gathers knowledge by degrees; Whose rays reflect not, but spread outwardly;

Not seeing itself, when other things it sees?

No, doubtless; for the mind can backward cast,
Upon herself, her understanding light;

But she is so corrupt, and so defac'd,
As her own image doth herself affright.

As is the fable of the lady fair,

Which for her lust was turn'd into a cow; When thirsty, to a stream she did repair, And saw herself transform'd she wist not how;

At first she startles, then she stands amaz'd;
At last with terror she from hence doth fly,
And loathes the wat'ry glass wherein she gaz'd,
And shuns it still, although for thirst she die :

Ev'n so man's soul, which did God's image bear, And was at first fair, good, and spotless pure; Since with her sins her beauties blotted were,

Doth of all sights, her own sight least endure;