“What's this flesh? A little cruded milkFantastical puff-paste. Our bodies are weaker than thosePaper prisons boys use to keep flies in; more contemptible,Since our is to preserve earth-worms. Didst thou ever seen A lark in a cage? Such is the soul in the body: this worldIs like her little turf of grass, and the heaven o'er our heads Like her looking-glass, only gives us a miserable knowledge Of the small compass of our prison.”