Nosce Teipsum: That the Soule is More then the Temperature of the Humors of the Body

If shee doth then the subtill Sense excell,
How gross are they that drown her in the blood!
Or in the bodie's humors tempred well,
As if in them such high perfection stood?

As if most skill in that Musician were,
Which had the best, and best tun'd instrument;
As if the pensill neate and colours cleare,
Had power to make the Painter excellent.

Why doth not beautie then refine the wit?
And good complexion rectifie the will?
Why doth not health bring wisdom still with it?
Why doth not sicknesse make men bruitish still?

Who can in memory, or wit, or will,
Or ayre, or fire, or earth, or water finde?
What alchymist can draw, with all his skil,
The quintessence of these, out of the mind?

If th' elements which haue nor life, nor sense,
Can breed in vs so great a powre as this;
Why giue they not themselues like excellence,
Or other things wherein their mixture is?

If she were but the Bodie's qualitie
Then would she be with it sicke, maim'd and blind;
But we perceiue where these priuations be
A healthy, perfect, and sharpe-sighted mind.

If she the bodie's nature did pertake,
Her strength would with the bodie's strength decay;
But when the bodie's strongest sinewes slake,
Then is the Soule most actiue, quicke and gay.

If she were but the bodie's accident,
And her sole being did in it subsist;
As white in snow; she might her selfe absent,
And in the bodie's substance not be mist.

But it on her, not shee on it depends;
For shee the body doth sustaine and cherish;
Such secret powers of life to it she lends,
That when they faile, then doth the body perish.

Since then the Soule works by her selfe alone,
Springs not from Sense, nor humors, well agreeing;
Her nature is peculiar, and her owne:
She is a substance, and a perfect being.