But why doe I the Soule and Sense diuide?
When Sense is but a power, which she extends;
Which being in diuers parts diuersifide,
The diuers formes of obiects apprehends?
This power spreds outward, but the root doth grow
In th' inward Soule, which onely doth perceiue;
For th' eyes and eares no more their obiects know,
Then glasses know what faces they receiue.
For if we chance to fixe our thoughts elsewhere,
Although our eyes be ope, we cannot see;
And if one power did not both see and heare,
Our sights and sounds would alwayes double be.
Then is the Soule a nature, which containes
The powre of Sense, within a greater power
Which doth imploy and vse the Senses paines,
But sits and rules within her priuate bower.
That the Soule is more then the Temperature[101] of the Humors of the Body.
If shee doth then the subtill Sense excell,
How gross are they that drown her in the blood!
Or in the bodie's humors tempred well,
As if in them such high perfection stood?
As if most skill in that Musician were,
Which had the best, and best tun'd instrument;
As if the pensill neate[102] and colours cleare,
Had power to make the Painter excellent.
Why doth not beautie then refine the wit?
And good complexion rectifie the will?
Why doth not health bring wisdom still with it?
Why doth not sicknesse make men bruitish still?
Who can in memory, or wit, or will,
Or ayre, or fire, or earth, or water finde?
What alchymist can draw, with all his skil,
The quintessence of these, out of the mind?
If th' elements which haue nor life, nor sense,
Can breed in vs so great a powre as this;
Why giue they not themselues like excellence,
Or other things wherein their mixture is?