GOD never gave a Power to one whole Kind; But most of that Kind did use the same! Most eyes have perfect sight! though some be blind; Most legs can nimbly run! though some be lame. But in this life, _no_ Soul, the Truth can know So perfectly, as it hath power to do! If then perfection be not found below, A higher place must make her mount thereto. [Sidenote: 2 _Reason_. Drawn from the motion of the Soul.] Again, how can She but immortal be? When with the motions of both Will and Wit, She still aspireth to Eternity, And never rests, till she attain to it. Water in conduit pipes can rise no higher Than the well head, from whence it first doth spring! Then since to eternal GOD, She doth aspire; She cannot be but an eternal thing. "All moving things to other things do move Of the same kind," which shows their natures such; So earth falls down, and fire doth mount above, Till both their proper Elements do touch. [Sidenote: The soul compared to a river.] And as the moisture which the thirsty earth Sucks from the sea, to fill her empty veins; From out her womb at last doth take a birth, And runs, a Nymph! along the grassy plains: Long doth she stay, as loath to leave the land, From whose soft side, she first did issue make: She tastes all places! turns to every hand! Her flow'ry banks unwilling to forsake: Yet Nature, so her streams doth lead and carry, As that her course doth make no final stay Till she, herself unto the Ocean marry; Within whose watry bosom first she lay. Even so the Soul, which in this earthy mould, The Spirit of GOD doth secretly infuse; Because, at first, She doth the earth behold, And only this material world She views! At first, our Mother Earth, She holdeth dear! And doth embrace the World, and worldly things! She flies close by the ground, and hovers here! And mounts not up with her celestial wings! Yet, under heaven, She cannot light on ought, That with her heavenly nature doth agree: She cannot rest! She cannot fix her thought! She cannot in this world contented be! For who did ever yet in Honour, Wealth, Or Pleasure of the Sense, contentment find? Who ever ceased to _wish_, when he had Health? Or having Wisdom, was not _vext in mind_? Then as a bee, which among weeds doth fall, Which seem sweet flowers, with lustre fresh and gay; She lights on that! and this! and tasteth all; But pleased with none, doth rise and soar away! So, when the Soul finds here no true content, And, like NOAH'S dove, can no sure footing take; She doth return from whence She first was sent, And flies to Him, that first her wings did make!