If there be nothing new, but that which is,Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled,Which labouring for invention bear amisThe second burthen of a former child!
O that record could with a backward look,Even of five hundred courses of the sun,Show me your image in some antique book,Since mind at first in character was done.
That I might see what the old world could say,To this composed wonder of your frame,Whether we are mended, or whether better they,Or whether revolution be the same.
O sure I am the wits of former days,To subjects worse have given admiring praise.
