Margaret Cavendish Poems

Small Atomes of themselves a World may make,
As being subtle, and of every shape:
And as they dance about, fit places finde,
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If Infinites of Worlds, they must be plac'd
At such a distance, as between lies waste.
If they were joyned close, moving about,
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Death is the cook of Nature; and we find
Meat dressèd several ways to please her mind.
Some meats she roasts with fevers, burning hot,
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If all the World were a confused heape,
What was beyond? for this World is not great:
We finde it Limit hath, and Bound,
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ALthough we at a distance stand; if great
The Fire be, the Body through will heat.
Yet those sharpe Atomes we do no perceive;
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WHY Earth's not apt to move, but slow and dull,
Is, Atomes flat no Vacuum hath but full.
That Forme admits no empty place to bide
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As darknesse a privation is of Light;
That's when the Optick Nerve is stopt from Light:
So Death is even a cessation in
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A Figure Spherical, the Motion's so,
Streight Figures in a darting Motion go:
As severall Figures in small Atomes bee,
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LIfe is a Fire, and burnes full hot,
But when Round watry Atomes power have got:
Then do they quench Lifes Atomes out,
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All that doth flow we cannot liquid name
Or else would fire and water be the same;
But that is liquid which is moist and wet
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