And if the soul's immortal, if she lives Divided from the body, if perceives, She must enjoy five senses still; for who Can fancy how the soul can live below, Unless 'tis thus endow'd? Thus painters please, And poets too, to draw their souls with these. But as without the soul, nor eye, nor ear, Nor either hand, can touch, or see, or hear; So neither can this soul, this mind perceive, Without these hands, these eyes, these ears, nor live. Besides, our vital sense is spread o'er all; The whole composure makes one animal: So that if sudden violent strokes divide This whole, and cast the parts on either side, The soul and mind too suffer the same fate, And part remains in this, and part in that. Now what can be divided, what can lie And waste in several parts, can likewise die. Besides, were souls immortal, ne'er began, But crept into the limbs to make up man, Why cannot they remember what was done In former times? Why all their memory gone? Now, if the mind's frail powers so far can waste, As to forget those numerous actions past, "Tis almost dead, and sure can die at last. Well, then, the former soul must needs be dead, And that which now informs us, newly made.

But when the body's made, when we begin
To view the light, if then the soul crept in,
How is it likely it should seem to grow,
Increase and flourish, as the members do?
No, it would live confin'd to her close cage,
With powers as great in infancy, as age.

But if they say, that souls expell'd by fate,
To other bodies of like kind retreat;
Then tell me why, Why doth the wisest soul,
When crept into a child, become a fool?
Why cannot new-born colts perform the course
With equal cunning as a full grown horse?
But that the souls are born, increase, and grow,
And rise mature, as all their bodies do.

Besides, come tell me why a soul should grow,
And rise mature, as all the members do,

If 'twere not born? When feeble age comes on,
Why is't in haste, and eager to be gone?
What does it fear, it makes such haste away,
To be imprison'd in the stinking clay?
What doth it fear the aged heap's decay?

'Tis fond to think, that whilst wild beasts beget,
Or bear their young, a thousand souls should wait,
Expect the falling body, fight and strive,
Which first shall enter in, and make it live.
But now suppose the soul, when separate,
Could live, and think, in a divided state:
Yet what is that to us, who are the whole,
A frame compos'd of body, join'd with soul?
Nay, grant the scatter'd ashes of our urn
Be join'd again, and life and sense return;
Yet how can that concern us, when 'tis done,
Since all the memory of past life is gone?
Now we ne'er joy, nor grieve, to think that we
Were heretofore, nor what those things will be,
Which fram'd from us, the following age shall see.
When we revolve, how numerous years have run,
How oft the east beheld the rising sun
E'er we began, and how the atoms move,
How the unthinking seed forever strove ;
"Tis probable, and reason's laws allow,

These seeds of ours were once combin'd as now;
Yet now who minds, who knows his former state?
The interim of death, the hand of fate,

Or stopt the seeds, or made them all commence
Such motions, as destroy'd the former sense.
He that is miserable, must perceive

Whilst he is so, he then must be and live;
But now since death permits to feel no more
Those cares, those troubles, which we felt before,

It follows too, that when we die again,

We need not fear; for he must live, that lives in pain:
But now the dead, though they should ali return
To life again, should grieve no more, nor mourn
For evils past, than if they ne'er were born.

For rising beings still the old pursue,

And take their place, old die, and frame the new:
But nothing sinks to hell, and sulphurous flames,
The seeds remain to make the future frames :
All which shall yield to fate as well as thou,
And things fell heretofore e'en just as now.
And still decaying things shall new produce;
For life's not given to possess, but use.

Besides, what dreadful things in death appear,
What tolerable cause for all our fear?
What sad, what dismal thoughts do bid us weep?
Is't not a quiet state, and soft as sleep.

The furies, Cerberus, black hell, and flames, Are airy fancies all, mere empty names. But whilst we live, the fear of dreadful pains For wicked deeds, the prison, scourge, and chains, The wheel, the block, the fire, affright the mind, Strike deep, and leave a constant sting behind.

Nay, those not felt; the guilty soul presents These dreadful shapes, and still herself torments, Scourges, and stings; nor doth she seem to know An end of these, but fears more fierce below, Eternal all. Thus fancied pains we feel, And live as wretched here, as if in hell. Consider, mighty kings in pomp and state, Fall, and ingloriously submit to fate.

Scipio, that scourge of Carthage, now the grave
Keeps prisoner, like the meanest common slave.
Nay, greatest wits, and poets too, that give
Eternity to others, cease to live.

Homer, their prince, is nothing now but fame,
A lasting, far diffus'd, but empty name.
Nay, Epicurus' race of life is run,
The man of wit, who other men out-shone,
As far as meaner stars the mid-day sun.

Then how dar'st thou repine to die, and grieve,
Thou meaner soul, thou dead, e'en whilst alive?
That sleep'st and dream'st the most of life away:
Thy night is full as rational as thy day;
Still vext with cares, who never understood
The principles of ill, nor use of good.

Our life must once have end, in vain we fly From following fate; e'en now, e'en now we die. He that says, nothing can be known, o'erthrows His own opinion, for he nothing knows,

So knows not that: What need of long dispute,
These maxims kill themselves, themselves confute.
Besides, that seas, that rivers waste and die,
And still increase by constant new supply,
What need of proofs? This streams themselves do show,
And in soft murmurs babble as they flow.
But lest the mass of waters prove too great,
The sun drinks some, to quench his natural heat;
And some the winds brush off: with wanton play
They dip their wings, and bear some parts away:
Some passes through the earth, diffus'd all o'er,
And leaves its salt behind in every pore;
For all returns through narrow channels spread,
And joins where'er the fountain shews her head;
And thence sweet streams in fair meanders play,
And through the valleys cut their liquid way;
And herbs, and flowers on every side bestow,
The fields all smile with flowers where'er they flow.
But more, the air through all the mighty frame
Is chang'd each hour, we breathe not twice the same:
Because as all things waste, the parts must fly
To the vast sea of air; they mount on high,
And softly wander in the lower sky.
Now did not this the wasting thing repair,
All had been long ago dissolv'd, all air.

Well, then, since all things waste, their vital chain
Dissolv'd, how can the frame of air remain?
It rises from, and makes up things again.

Besides, the sun, that constant spring of light,
Still cuts the heaven with streams of shining white,
And the decaying old, with new supplies,

For every portion of the beam that flies;

Nor should we see, but all lie blind in night,

Unless new streams flow'd from the spring of light.

Again, the strongest rocks, and towers do feel the rage

Of powerful time, e'en temples wast by age:

Nor can the gods themselves prolong their date,
Change Nature's law, or get reprieve from fate.
E'en tombs grow old and waste, by years o'rethrown ;
Men's graves, before, but now become their own.

Lastly, look round, view that vast tract of sky,
In whose embrace our earth and waters lie,
Whence all things rise, to which they all return,
As some discourse, the same both womb and urn;
"Tis surely mortal all: for that which breeds,
That which gives birth to other things, or feeds,
Must lose some parts; and when those things do cease,
It gets some new again, and must increase.
But Phoebus gather'd up the scatter'd ray,
And brought to heaven again the falling day:
Such streams of rays from father sun still rise,
As cherish all with heat, and fill the skies.
And fruitful Parent Earth doth justly bear
The name of mother, since all rose from her.
When both were young, when both in Nature's pride,
A lusty bridegroom he, and she the bride.
Then men content with the poor easy store
That sun and earth bestow'd, they wish no more.
Soft acorns were their first and chiefest food,
And those red apples that adorn the wood,
And make pale inter blush; such Nature bore
More numerous then, beside a thousand more,
Which all supplie'd poor man with ample store.
When thirsty, then did purling streams invite
To satisfy their eager appetite:

As now in murmurs loud, the headlong floods
Invite the thirsty creatures of the woods.

Besides, by night they took their rest in caves,
Where little streams roll on with silent waves,
They bubble through the stones, and softly creep,
As fearful to disturb the nymphs that sleep.

Then to renew frail man's decaying race,

Or mutual lust did prompt them to embrace.

Then strong and swift they did the beasts pursue, Their arms were stones and clubs, and some they slew, And some they fled; from those they fear'd to fight They ran, and ow'd their safety to their flight.