But purge the humors, and the rage appease,
Which this distemper in the fansie wrought;
Then shall the Wit, which never had disease,
Discourse, and iudge discreetly, as it ought.
So, though the clouds eclipse the sunne's faire light,
Yet from his face they doe not take one beame;
So haue our eyes their perfect power of sight,
Euen when they looke into a troubled streame.
Then these defects in Senses' organs bee,
Not in the soule or in her working might;
She cannot lose her perfect power to see,
Thogh mists and clouds do choke her window light.
These imperfections then we must impute,
Not to the agent but the instrument;
We must not blame Apollo, but his lute,
If false accords from her false strings be sent.
The Soule in all hath one intelligence;
Though too much moisture in an infant's braine,
And too much drinesse in an old man's sense,
Cannot the prints of outward things retaine:
Then doth the Soule want worke, and idle sit,
And this we childishnesse and dotage call;
Yet hath she then a quicke and actiue Wit,
If she had stuffe and tooles to worke withall:
For, giue her organs fit, and obiects faire;
Giue but the aged man, the young man's sense;
Let but Medea, Æson's youth repaire,[152]
And straight she shewes her wonted excellence.
As a good harper stricken farre in yeares,
Into whose cunning hand the gowt is fall;[153]
All his old crotchets in his braine he beares,
But on his harpe playes ill, or not at all.
But if Apollo takes his gowt away,
That hee his nimble fingers may apply;
Apollo's selfe will enuy at his play,
And all the world applaud his minstralsie.
Then dotage is no weaknesse of the mind,
But of the Sense; for if the mind did waste,
In all old men we should this wasting find,
When they some certaine terme of yeres had past: