Much like a subtle spider, which doth sit In middle of her web, which spreadeth wide; If ought do touch the utmost thread of it; She feels it, instantly, on every side! By touch; the first pure qualities we learn, Which quicken all things, Hot, Cold, Moist, and Dry! By touch; Hard, Soft, Rough, Smooth, we do discern! By touch; sweet Pleasure, and sharp Pain we try! These are the outward instruments of Sense! These are the Guards, which every thing must pass; Ere it approach the Mind's intelligence! Or touch the Phantasy "Wits Looking Glass!" [Sidenote: The Imagination, or Common Sense.] And yet these Porters which all things admit, Themselves perceive not, nor discern the things; One Common Power doth in the forehead sit, Which all their proper forms together brings. For all those Nerves, which spirits of Sense do bear, And to those outward organs spreading go, United are as in a centre there! And, there, this power, those sundry forms doth know! Those outward Organs present things receive; This inward Sense doth absent things retain! Yet, straight, transmits all Forms she doth perceive, Unto a higher region of the brain; [Sidenote: The Phantasy.] Where Phantasy (near handmaid to the Mind!) Sits and beholds, and doth discern them all; Compounds in one, things diverse in their kind, Compares the black and white, the great and small. Besides those single forms, She doth esteem, And in her balance doth their values try; Where some things good, and some things ill do seem, And neutral some in her Phantastic eye. This busy power is working day and night, For when the outward senses rest do take; A thousand dreams, phantastical and light, With fluttering wings, do keep her still awake! [Sidenote: The sensitive Memory.] Yet, always, all may not afore her be; Successively, she this, and that intends: Therefore such forms as she doth cease to see, To Memory's large volume she commends! The Ledger Book lies in the brain behind, Like JANUS' eye, which in his poll was set; The Layman's Tables! Storehouse of the Mind! Which doth remember much, and much forget. Here, Sense's Apprehensions end doth take; As, when a stone is into water cast, One circle doth another circle make, Till the last circle touch the bank at last! [Sidenote: The Passions of Sense.] But though the Apprehensive Power do pause, The Motive Virtue then begins to move! Which in the heart below, doth Passions cause, Joy, Grief, and Fear, and Hope, and Hate, and Love