It so disturbs and blots the forms of things,
As Phantasy proves altogether vain,
And to the Wit, no true relation brings.
Then doth the Wit, admitting all for true,
Build fond conclusions on those idle grounds;
Then doth it fly the Good, and Ill pursue,
Believing all that this false spy propounds.
But purge the humours, and the rage appease;
Which this distemper in the Fancy wrought:
Then will the Wit, which never had disease,