Yet, out he comes! and in this world is placed,
Where all his Senses in perfection be;
Where he finds flowers to smell, and fruits to taste,
And sounds to hear, and sundry forms to see.
When he hath passed some time upon this Stage,
His Reason, then, a little seems to wake,
Which though She spring, when Sense doth fade with age,
Yet can She here, no perfect practice make.
Then doth th' aspiring Soul, the Body leave,
Which we call Death. But were it known to all,