Men are but children of a larger growth;
Our appetites are apt to change as theirs,
And full as craving too, and full as vain;
And yet the soul, shut up in her dark room,
Viewing so clear abroad, at home sees nothing;
But, like a mole in earth, busy and blind,
Works all her folly up, and casts it outward
To the world's open view.
More verses by John Dryden
- You Charm'D Me Not With That Fair Face
- Epitaph On A Nephew, In Catworth Church, Huntingdonshire
- Epilogue To The Husband His Own Cuckold
- A Song. High State And Honours To Others Impart
- Cymon And Iphigenia. From Boccace