Why give they not themselves like excellence,
Or other things wherein their mixture is?

If she were but the body's quality,

Then we should be with it sick, maim'd, and blind; But we perceive, where these privations be,

An healthy, perfect, and sharp-sighted mind.

BUT how shall we this union well express?
Nought lies the soul, her subtlety is such,
She moves the body which she doth possess,
Yet no part toucheth but by virtue's touch.

Then dwells she not therein as in a tent,
Nor as a pilot in his ship doth sit,
Nor as the spider in his web is pent,
Nor as the wax retains the print in it.

Nor as a vessel water doth contain,
Nor as one liquor in another shed,

Nor as the heat doth in the fire remain,
Nor as the voice throughout the air is spread;

But as the fair and cheerful morning light
Doth here and there her silver beams impart,
And in an instant doth herself unite

To the transparent air, in all and every part

So doth the piercing soul the body fill,

Being all in all, and all in part diffus'd;
Indivisible, incòrruptible still,

Nor forc'd, encounter'd, troubled, nor confus'd.

And as the sun above the light doth bring,
Though we behold it in the air below,

So from the Eternal light the soul doth spring,
Though in the body she her powers do shew.

REASONS FOR THE SOUL'S IMMORTALITY.

AGAIN, how can she but immortal be,
When, with the motions of both will and wit,
She still aspireth to eternity,

And never rests till she attain to it?

All moving things to other things do move

Of the same kind, which shews their nature such; So earth falls down, and fire doth mount above, Till both their proper elements do touch.

And as the moisture which the thirsty earth
Sucks from the sea to fill her empty veins,
From out her womb at last doth take a birth,
And runs a lymph along the grassy plains.

VOL. I.

CC

Long doth she stay, as loth to leave the land
From whose soft side she first did issue make;
She tastes all places, turns to every hand,
Her flowery banks unwilling to forsake.

Yet nature so her streams doth lead and carry, As that her course doth make no final stay, Till she herself unto the sea doth marry, Within whose watʼry bosom first she lay.

E'en so the soul, which, in this earthly mould,
The spirit of God doth secretly infuse,
Because at first she doth the earth behold,
And only this material world she views.

At first her mother earth she holdeth dear,
And doth embrace the world and worldly things;
She flies close by the ground, and hovers here,
And mounts not up with her celestial wings:

Yet under heaven she cannot light on aught
That with her heav'nly nature doth agree;
She cannot rest, she cannot fix her thought,
She cannot in this world contented be.

For who did ever yet, in honour, wealth,
Or pleasure of the sense, contentment find?
Who ever ceas'd to wish, when he had health,
Or, having wisdom, was not vex'd in mind?

gay,

Then, as a bee which among weeds doth fall,
Which seem sweet flow'rs, with lustre fresh and
She lights on that, and this, and tasteth all,
But, pleas'd with none, doth rise and soar away.

So, when the soul finds here no true content,
And, like Noah's dove, can no sure footing take,
She doth return from whence she first was sent,
And flies to him that first her wings did make.

THOMAS GOFFE.
BORN 1592.-DİED 1627.

THIS writer left four or five dramatic pieces of very ordinary merit. He was bred at Christ's Church, Oxford. He held the living of East Clandon, in Essex, but unfortunately succeeded not only to the living, but to the widow of his predecessor, who, being a Xantippe, contributed, according to Langbaine, to shorten his days by the "violence of her provoking tongue." He had the reputation of an eloquent preacher, and some of his sermons appeared in print.

SCENE FROM GOFFE'S TRAGEDY OF AMURATH, OR THE COURAGEOUS TURK.

Aladin, husband to the daughter of Amurath, having rebelled against his father-in-law, is brought captive before him.

Enter at one door, Amurath with attendants; at the other door, Aladin, his wife, two children, in white--they kneel to Amurath.

Amur. OUR hate must not part thus. I'll tell thee, prince,

That thou hast kindled Ætna in our breast! And such a flame is quench'd with nought but blood

His blood whose hasty and rebellious blast

Gave life unto the fire! * *

*

Alad. Why then, I'll, like the Roman Pompey,

hide

My dying sight, scorning imperious looks
Should grace so base a stroke with sad aspèct.
Thus will I muffle up, and choke my groans,.
Lest a griev'd tear should quite put out the name
Of lasting courage in Carmania's fame!

Amur. What, still stiff-neck’d? Is this the truce you beg?

Sprinkled before thy face, those rebel brats
Shall have their brains-and their dissected limbs
Hurl'd for a prey to kites !-for, lords, 'tis fit
No spark of such a mountain-threat'ning fire
Be left as unextinct, lest it devour,