Here flies a cloud before the eyes of men,
I cannot tell thee how, nor canst thou tell me when.
Was it a parcel of celestial fire,
Infus’d by heav’n into this fleshly mould?
Or was it, think you, made a soul entire?
Then, was it new created, or of old?
Or is’t a propagated spark, rak’d out
From nature’s embers? while we go about
By reason to resolve, the more we raise a doubt.
If it be part of that celestial flame,