What is it, then, that doth the Sense accuse,
Both of false judgements, and fond appetites?
Which makes us do, what Sense doth most refuse?
Which oft, in torment of the Sense delights?
Sense thinks the planets' spheres not much asunder;
What tells us, then, their distance is so far?
Sense thinks the lightning born before the thunder,
What tells us, then, they both together are?
When men seem crows, far off upon a tower;
Sense saith, "They are crows!" What makes us think them men?