Till both their proper Elements do touch.
The soul compared to a river.
And as the moisture which the thirsty earth
Sucks from the sea, to fill her empty veins;
From out her womb at last doth take a birth,
And runs, a Nymph! along the grassy plains:
Long doth she stay, as loath to leave the land,
From whose soft side, she first did issue make:
She tastes all places! turns to every hand!