The Consolation of Philosophy

The general race of men from a like birth is born.

All things one Father have, Who doth them all adorn,

Who gave the sun his rays, and the pale moon her horn,

The lofty heaven for stars, low earth for mortals chose;

He souls fetched down from high in bodies did enclose;

And thus from noble seed all men did first compose.

Why brag you of your stock? Since none is counted base,

If you consider God the author of your race,

But he that with foul vice doth his own birth deface.