Somewhat formal and artificial, no doubt; rugged at the same time, like him who wrote them. When a man would utter that concerning which he has only felt, not thought, he can express himself only in the forms he has been taught, conventional or traditional. Let his powers be ever so much developed in respect of other things, here, where he has not meditated, he must understand as a child, think as a child, speak as a child. He can as yet generate no sufficing or worthy form natural to himself. But the utterance is not therefore untrue. There was no professional bias to cause the stream of Ben Jonson's verses to flow in that channel. Indeed, feeling without thought, and the consequent combination of impulse to speak with lack of matter, is the cause of much of that common-place utterance concerning things of religion which is so wearisome, but which therefore it is not always fair to despise as cant. About the same age as Ben Jonson, though the date of his birth is unknown, I now come to mention Thomas Heywood, a most voluminous writer of plays, who wrote also a book, chiefly in verse, called _The Hierarchy of the Blessed Angels_, a strange work, in which, amongst much that is far from poetic, occur the following remarkable metaphysico-religious verses. He had strong Platonic tendencies, interesting himself chiefly however in those questions afterwards pursued by Dr. Henry More, concerning witches and such like subjects, which may be called the shadow of Platonism. I have wandered like a sheep that's lost, To find Thee out in every coast: _Without_ I have long seeking bin, _been._ Whilst thou, the while, abid'st _within_. Through every broad street and strait lane Of this world's city, but in vain, I have enquired. The reason why? I sought thee ill: for how could I Find thee _abroad_, when thou, mean space, Hadst made _within_ thy dwelling-place? I sent my messengers about, To try if they could find thee out; But all was to no purpose still, Because indeed they sought thee ill: For how could they discover thee That saw not when thou entered'st me? Mine eyes could tell me? If he were, Not coloured, sure he came not there. If not by sound, my ears could say He doubtless did not pass my way. My nose could nothing of him tell, Because my God he did not smell. None such I relished, said my taste, And therefore me he never passed. My feeling told me that none such There entered, for he none did touch. Resolved by them how should I be, Since none of all these are in thee, In thee, my God? Thou hast no hue That man's frail optic sense can view; No sound the ear hears; odour none The smell attracts; all taste is gone At thy appearance; where doth fail A body, how can touch prevail? What even the brute beasts comprehend-- To think thee such, I should offend.