The Soul.

SOme dull Philos'opher when he hears me say,
My Soul is from me fled away;
Nor has of late inform'd my Body here,
But in anothers breast does ly,
That neither Is, nor will be I,
As a Form Servient and Assisting there.

Will cry, Absurd! and ask me, how I live:
And Syllogisms against it give;
A curse on all your vain Philosophies,
Which on weak Natures Law depend,
And know not how to comprehend
Love and Religion, those great Mysteries.

Her Body is my Soul; laugh not at this,
For by my Life I swear it is.
'Tis that preserves my Being and my Breath,
From that proceeds all that I do,
Nay all my Thoughts and speeches too,
And separation from it is my Death.