They Do Most By Books, Who Could

Art Is The Perfection Of Nature, ... Nature Is The Art Of God.

To Call Ourselves A Microcosme, Or Little World, I Thought It Onely A Pleasant Trope Of Rhetorick, Till My Neare Judgement And Second Thoughts Told Me There Was A Reall Truth Therein: For First Wee Are A Rude Masse, And In The Ranke Of Creatures, Which Only Are, And Have A Dull Kinde Of Being Not Yet Priviledged With Life, Or Preferred To Sense Or Reason; Next We Live The Life Of Plants, The Life Of Animals, The Life Of Men, And At Last The Life Of Spirits, Running On In One Mysterious Nature Those Five Kinds Of Existence, Which Comprehend The Creatures Not Onely Of World, But Of The Universe.

I Cannot Tell By What Logic We Call A Toad, A Bear, Or An Elephant Ugly; They Being Created In Those Outward Shapes And Figures Which Best Express The Actions Of Their Inward Forms.

Sleep Is A Death, O Make Me Try By Sleeping, What It Is To Die, And As Gently Lay My Head On My Grave, As Now My Bed.

There Are Wonders In True Affection. It Is A Body Of Enigmas, Mysteries, And Riddles, Wherein Two So Become One, As They Both Become Two.