Answere

These questions make a subtill argument,To such as thinke 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 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 amisseAnd 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 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:

For, giue her organs fit, and obiects faire;Giue but the aged man, the young man's sense;Let but Medea, Æson's youth repaire,And straight she shewes her wonted excellence.

As a good harper stricken farre in yeares,Into whose cunning hand the gowt is fall;All his old crotchets in his braine he beares,But on his harpe playes ill, or not at all.

But if Apollo takes his gowt away,That hee his nimble fingers may apply;Apollo's selfe will enuy at his play,And all the world applaud his minstralsie.

Then dotage is no weaknesse of the mind,But of the Sense; for if the mind did waste,In all old men we should this wasting find,When they some certaine terme of yeres had past:

But most of them, euen to their dying howre,Retaine a mind more liuely, quicke, and strong;And better vse their vnderstanding power,Then when their braines were warm, and lims were yong.

For, though the body wasted be and weake,And though the leaden forme of earth it beares;Yet when we heare that halfe-dead body speake,We oft are rauisht to the heauenly spheares.