Pain makes his downy couch sharp thorns appear,
And ev'ry feather prick him like a spear.
Thus, when all forms of death about him keep,
70He copies death in any form, but sleep.
Poor walking-clay! hast thou a mind to know
To what unblest beginnings thou dost owe
Thy wretched self? fall sick a while, and than
Thou wilt conceive the pedigree of Man.
Learn shalt thou from thine own anatomy,
That earth his mother, worms his sisters be.