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THE SNAIL (1), by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Wise emblem of our politic [politick] world
Last Line: Upward, and rarefy the air.
Variant Title(s): The Snayl
Subject(s): Snails


WISE emblem of our politic world,
Sage snail, within thine own self curl'd,
Instruct me softly to make haste,
Whilst these my feet go slowly fast.
Compendious snail! thou seem'st to me
Large Euclid's strict epitome;
And, in each diagram, dost fling
Thee from the point unto the ring.
A figure now triangular,
An oval now, and now a square;
And then a serpentine dost crawl,
Now a straight line, now crook'd, now all.
Preventing rival of the day,
Th' art up and openest thy ray,
And ere the morn cradles the moon,
Th' art broke into a beauteous noon.
Then, when the sun sups in the deep,
Thy silver horns ere Cynthia's peep,
And thou, from thine own liquid bed,

New Phœbus, heav'st thy pleasant head.
Who shall a name for thee create,
Deep riddle of mysterious state?
Bold Nature, that gives common birth
To all products of seas and earth,
Of thee, as earthquakes, is afraid,
Nor will thy dire deliv'ry aid.
Thou thine own daughter, then, and sire,
That son and mother art entire,
That big still with thyself dost go,
And liv'st an aged embryo;
That, like the cubs of India,
Thou from thyself a while dost play;
But frighted with a dog or gun,
In thine own belly thou dost run,
And as thy house was thine own womb,
So thine own womb concludes thy tomb.
But now I must, analys'd king,
Thy economic virtues sing;
Thou great staid husband still within,
Thou thee, that's thine, dost discipline;
And when thou art to progress bent,
Thou mov'st thyself and tenement,
As warlike Scythians travell'd, you
Remove your men and city too;
Then, after a sad dearth and rain,
Thou scatterest thy silver train;
And when the trees grow nak'd and old,
Thou clothest them with cloth of gold,
Which from thy bowels thou dost spin,
And draw from the rich mines within.
Now hast thou chang'd thee saint, and made
Thyself a fane that's cupola'd;
And in thy wreathed cloister thou
Walkest thine own grey friar too;
Strict, and lock'd up, th' art hood all o'er,
And ne'er eliminat'st thy door.
On salads thou dost feed severe,
And 'stead of beads thou dropp'st a tear,
And when to rest each calls the bell,
Thou sleep'st within thy marble cell;
Where, in dark contemplation plac'd,
The sweets of Nature thou dost taste;
Who now with Time thy days resolve,
And in a jelly thee dissolve:
Like a shot star, which doth repair
Upward, and rarefy the air.





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