But to the Soul, time doth perfection give, And adds fresh lustre to her beauty still, And makes her in eternal youth to live, Like her which nectar to the gods doth fill. The more She lives, the more She feeds on Truth; The more She feeds, her Strength doth more increase: And what is Strength, but an effect of Youth! Which if Time nurse, how can it ever cease? [Sidenote: Objections against the Immortality of the Soul.] But now these Epicures begin to smile, And say, "My doctrine is more safe, than true!" And that "I fondly do myself beguile, While these received opinions I ensue." [Sidenote: Objection.] "For what!" they say, "doth not the Soul wax old? How comes it, then, that aged men do dote, And that their brains grow sottish, dull, and cold; Which were in youth, the only spirits of note?" "What! are not Souls within themselves corrupted? How can there idiots then by Nature be? How is it that some wits are interrupted, That now they dazzled are, now clearly see?" [Sidenote: Answer.] These questions make a subtle argument To such as think both Sense and Reason one: To whom, nor Agent, from the Instrument; Nor Power of Working, from the Work is known But they that know that Wit can show no skill, But when she things in Sense's glass doth view; Do know, if accident this glass do spill, It _nothing_ sees! or sees the _false_ for _true_. For if that region of the tender brain, Wherein th'inward sense of Phantasy should sit, And th'outward senses' gatherings should retain, By Nature, or by chance become unfit. Either at first uncapable it is; And so few things or none at all receives; Or marred by accident which haps amiss, And so amiss it everything perceives; Then as a cunning Prince that useth spies; If they return no news, doth nothing know; But if they make advertisement of lies, The Prince's Council all awry do go. Even so, the Soul, to such a Body knit, Whose inward senses undisposèd be, And to receive the Forms of things unfit; Where nothing is brought in, can nothing see. This makes the Idiot, which hath yet a mind, Able to know the Truth, and choose the Good; If she such figures in the brain did find, As might be found, if it in temper stood. But if a frenzy do possess the brain; It so disturbs and blots the forms of things, As Phantasy proves altogether vain, And to the Wit, no true relation brings. Then doth the Wit, admitting all for true, Build fond conclusions on those idle grounds; Then doth it fly the Good, and Ill pursue, Believing all that this false spy propounds.