Following on, in a way, from Lewis’s post, here’s something from Henry More’s Philosophical Poems.
This is that awfull cell where Naturalists
Brood deep opinion, as themselves conceit;
This Errours den where in a magick mist
Men hatch their own delusion and deceit,
And grasp vain shows. Here their bold brains they beat,
And dig full deep, as deep as Hyle‘s hell,
Unbare the root of life (O searching wit!)
But root of life in Hyles shade no’te dwell.
For God’s the root of all, as I elsewhere shall tell.
This is the stupid state of drooping soul,
That loves the body and false forms admires;
Slave to base sense, fierce ‘gainst reasons controul,
That still it self with lower lust bemires;
That nought believeth and much lesse desires
Things of that unseen world and inward life,
Nor unto height of purer truth aspires:
But cowardly declines the noble strife
‘Gainst vice and ignorance; so gets it no relief.
From “PSYCHATHANASIA OR The second part of the Song of the SOUL, Treating Of the Immortality of Souls, especially MANS SOUL”.
[Cross-posted from philosophymodsquad.wordpress.com.]