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 Soul, in all, hath one intelligence,
Though too much moisture in an infant's brain,
And too much dryness in an old man's sense
Cannot the prints of outward things retain.
Then doth the Soul want work, and idle sit:
And this we Childishness and Dotage call: