Sir Walter Raleigh.
By Sir Walter Raleigh, in the unquiett rest of his last sickness.[12]
Eternal Mover, whose diffused glory
To shew our groveling reason what thou art,
Infoldes itself in cloudes of restless story,
Where man (the proudest creature) acts his parte;
Whom yett, alas! I know not why, we call
The world’s contracted sunn, the little all.
For what are wee, but lumpes of walking clay?