Which now to view itself, doth first begin.
For her true form, how can my Spark discern?
Which dim by Nature, Art did never clear;
When the great wits, of whom all skill we learn,
Are ignorant, both What She is! and Where!
One thinks the Soul is Air, another Fire,
Another, Blood diffused about the heart,
Another saith, the Elements conspire,
And to her Essence, each doth give a part.
Musicians think our Souls are Harmonies;