Book I, 42: On the Body of Man

Mans Body's like a House: His greater Bones,
Are the maine Timber; And the lesser Ones,
Are smaller Splints: His Ribs are Laths, daubd o'er,
Plaister'd with flesh and bloud: his Mouth's the Doore:
His Throat's the narrow Entry: And his Heart
Is the Great Chamber, full of curious Art:
His Midreife, is a large partition Wall,
'Twixt the Great Chamber, and the spacious Hall:
His Stomacke is the Kitchin, where the Meate
Is often but halfe sod, for want of Heate:
His Spleen's a Vessell, Nature does allot
To take the skimme, that rises from the Pot:
His Lungs are like the Bellowes that respire
In ev'ry office, quickning ev'ry Fire:
His Nose, the Chimney is, whereby are vented
Such Fumes, as with the Bellowes are augmented:
His Bowels are the Sinke, whose part's to drine
All noysome filth, and keepe the Kitchin cleane:
His Eyes like Christall Windowes cleare and bright
Lets in the Obect, and lets out the sight:
And as the Timber is, or great or small,
Or strong or weake; 'tis apt to stand, or fall;
Yet is the likelyest Building sometimes knowne,
To fall by obvious Chances; overthrowne,
Oft-times by Tempests, by the full mouth'd Blasts
Of Heav'n; Sometimes by Fire; Somtimes it wasts
Through unadvis'd neglect: Put case, the Stuffe
Were ruin-proofe; by nature, strong enough,
To conquer Time and Age: Put case, it should
Ne'er know an end, Alas, Our Leases would:
What hast thou then, proud flesh and bloud, to boast?
Thy Dayes are ev'll, at best,; but few, at most;
But sad, at merryest and but weake, at strongest;
Vnsure, at surest; and but short, at longest,