156 SIR JOHN DAVTES

Then she the Senses checks, which oft do err,
And even against their false reports decrees;
And oft she doth condemn what they prefer,
For with a power above the Sense, she sees.

Therefore no Sense the precious joys conceives
Which in her private contemplations be,
For then the ravish't spirit the Senses leaves,
Hath her own powers and proper actions free,

Her harmonies are sweet and full of skill
When on the Body's instrument she plays,
But the proportions of the wit and will,
Those sweet accords, are even the angels' lays.

These tunes of Reason are Amphion's lyre
Wherewith he did the Theban city found,
These are the notes wherewith the heavenly quire
The praise of Him which made the heaven doth sound.

Then her self-being nature shines in this,
That she performs her noblest works alone:
'The work the touchstone of the nature is,
And by their operations things are known*'

That the Soul is More than a Perfection or Reflection of the S

ARE they not senseless then, that think the Soul
Nought but a fine perfection of the Sense,
Or of the forms which fancy doth enroll
A quick resulting and a consequence?

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

Sense thinks the planets spheres not much asunder;
What tells us then their distance is so far?
Sense thinks the lightning born before the thunder;
What tells us then they both together are?