Thus, like the soul o' th' world, our subtle art
Insinuates itself through every part.
Strange rarity! which canst the body save
From the coarse usage in a sullen grave,
Yet never make it mummy! Strange, that hand,
That spans and circumscribes the sea and land—
That draws from death to th' life, without a spell,
70As Orpheus did Eurydice from hell.
But all my lines are rude, and all such praise
Dead-colour'd nonsense. Painters scorn slight bays.