Again

Are they not sencelesse then, that thinke the SouleNought but a fine perfection of the Sense;Or of the formes which fancie doth enroule,A quicke resulting, and a consequence?

What is it then that doth the Sense accuse,Both of false judgements, and fond appetites?What makes vs do what Sense doth most refuse?Which oft in torment of the Sense delights?

Sense thinkes the planets, spheares not much asunder;What tels vs then their distance is so farre?Sense thinks the lightning borne before the thunder;What tels vs then they both together are?

When men seem crows far off vpon a towre,Sense saith, th'are crows; what makes vs think them men?When we in agues, thinke all sweete things sowre,What makes vs know our tongue's false iudgement then?

What power was that, whereby Medea saw,And well approu'd, and prais'd the better course,When her rebellious Sense did so withdrawHer feeble powers, as she pursu'd the worse?

Did Sense perswade Vlisses not to heareThe mermaid's songs, which so his men did please;As they were all perswaded, through the eareTo quit the ship, and leape into the seas?

Could any power of Sense the Romane moue,To burn his own right hand with courage stout?Could Sense make Marius sit vnbound, and proueThe cruell lancing of the knotty gout?

Doubtlesse in Man there is a nature found,Beside the Senses, and aboue them farre;'Though most men being in sensuall pleasures drownd,'It seems their Soules but in their Senses are.'

If we had nought but Sense, then onely theyShould haue sound minds, which haue their Senses sound;But Wisdome growes, when Senses doe decay,And Folly most in quickest Sense is found.

If we had nought but Sense, each liuing wight,Which we call brute, would be more sharp then we;As hauing Sense's apprehensiue might,In a more cleere, and excellent degree.

But they doe want that quicke discoursing power,Which doth in vs the erring Sense correct;Therefore the bee did sucke the painted flower,And birds, of grapes, the cunning shadow, peckt.

Sense outsides knows; the Soule throgh al things sees;Sense, circumstance; she, doth the substance view;Sense sees the barke, but she, the life of trees;Sense heares the sounds, but she, the concords true.

I know my bodie's of so fraile a kind,As force without, feauers within can kill;I know the heauenly nature of my minde,But 'tis corrupted both in wit and will:

I know my Soule hath power to know all things,Yet is she blinde and ignorant in all;I know I am one of Nature's little kings,Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall.

I know my life's a paine and but a span,I know my Sense is mockt with euery thing:And to conclude, I know my selfe a MAN,Which is a proud, and yet a wretched thing.

If the pathos and grandeur of Pascal be anticipated inthese lines, Pope has certainly appropriated Davies'favourite metaphor of the 'spider.' Witness the Senseof Feeling illustrated:--

Much like a subtill spider, which doth sitIn middle of her web, which spreadeth wide;If ought doe touch the vtmost thred of it,Shee feeles it instantly on euery side.