My teares might all the parched sands haue drench'd,
Though Phaeton had vndone the liquide frame:
Ile furnish Vulcans fornace with a flame,
That like the Vestals fire was neuer quench'd.
And though th'infected aire turmoil'd remaine,
It by my sighes and cries may be refin'd:
And if the bodie answer to the mind,
If no earth were, mine might make th'earth againe:
Though all the sauage flockes lay dead in heapes,
With which th'Arabian desarts are best stor'd,
My brest might many a fiercer beast affoord,
If like themselues all cloath'd with monstrous shapes:
And thus within my selfe I create so,
A world with all the Elements of wo.