But they that know that wit can shew no skill, But when she things in _Sense's glasse_ doth view; Doe know, if accident this glasse doe spill, It _nothing sees_, or _sees the false for true_. For, if that region of the tender braine, Where th' inward sense of Fantasie should sit, And the outward senses gatherings should retain, By Nature, or by chance, become vnfit; Either at first vncapable it is, And so few things, or none at all receiues; Or mard by accident, which haps amisse And so amisse it euery thing perceiues. Then, as a cunning prince that vseth _spyes_, If they returne no newes doth nothing know; But if they make aduertisement of lies, The Prince's Counsel all awry doe goe. Euen so the _Soule_ to such a body knit, Whose inward senses vndisposèd be, And to receiue the formes of things vnfit; Where nothing is brought in, can nothing see. This makes the idiot, which hath yet a mind, Able to _know_ the truth, and _chuse_ the good; If she such figures in the braine did find, As might be found, if it in temper stood. But if a _phrensie_ doe possesse the braine, It so disturbs and blots the formes of things; As Fantasie prooues altogether vaine, And to the Wit no true relation brings. Then doth the Wit, admitting all for true, Build fond[151] conclusions on those idle grounds; Then doth it flie the good, and ill pursue, Beleeuing all that this false _spie_ propounds. But purge the humors, and the rage appease, Which this distemper in the fansie wrought; Then shall the _Wit_, which never had disease, Discourse, and iudge discreetly, as it ought. So, though the clouds eclipse the _sunne's_ faire light, Yet from his face they doe not take one beame; So haue our eyes their perfect power of sight, Euen when they looke into a troubled streame. Then these defects in _Senses'_ organs bee, Not in the _soule_ or in her working might; She cannot lose her perfect power to see, Thogh mists and clouds do choke her window light. These imperfections then we must impute, Not to the agent but the instrument; We must not blame _Apollo_, but his lute, If false accords from her false strings be sent. The _Soule_ in all hath one intelligence; Though too much moisture in an infant's braine, And too much drinesse in an old man's sense, Cannot the prints of outward things retaine: Then doth the _Soule_ want worke, and idle sit, And this we _childishnesse_ and _dotage_ call; Yet hath she then a quicke and actiue Wit, If she had stuffe and tooles to worke withall: