'But yet _thou art_ my flesh, my blood, _my daughter_. Or rather, a disease that's in my flesh Which I must needs call _mine_. Filial ingratitude! Is _it not as this mouth should tear this hand For lifting food to it_?' For that is the poet's conception of the extent of this social life and outgoing--that is the _interior_ of that social whole, in which the dissolution he represents here is proceeding,--and that is the kind of new phenomenon which the science of man, when it takes him as he is, not the abstract man of the schools, not the logical man that the Realists and the Nominalists went to blows for, but 'the thing itself,' exhibits. As to that other '_man_,'--the man of the old philosophy,--he was not 'worth the whistle,' this one thinks. 'His bones were marrowless, his blood was cold, he had no speculation in those eyes that he did glare with.' The New Philosopher will have no such skeletons in his system. He is getting his _general_ man out of particular cases, building him up solid, from a basis of natural history, and, as far as he goes, there will be no question, no two words about it, as to whether he _is_ or _is not_. 'For I do take,' says the Advancer of Learning, 'the _consideration_ in general, and at large, of _Human Nature_, to be fit to be emancipated and made a knowledge by itself.' No wonder if some new aspects of these ordinary phenomena, these 'common things,' as he calls them, should come out, when they too come to be subjected to a scientific inquiry, and when the Poet of this Advancement, this so subtle Poet of it, begins to explore them. And as to this particular point which he puts down with so much care, this point which poor Lear is illustrating here, viz. 'that our affections carry themselves beyond us,' as the sage of the 'Mountain' expresses it, this is the view the same Poet gives of it, in accounting for Ophelia's madness. 'Nature is fine in love; and where 'tis fine, It sends some precious instance of itself, After the thing it loves.' 'Your old kind father,' continues Lear, searching to the quick the secrets of this 'broken-heartedness,' as people are content to call it, this ill to which the human species is notoriously liable, though philosophy had not thought it worth while before 'to find it out;' 'Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all,-- O _that way_ madness lies; let me shun _that_, No more of _that_.'