My heart contains of good, wise, just, the perfect shape.
But see! theVirgin blessed Hath laid her Babe to rest. Time is our tedious song should here have ending.
Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot Which men call earth.
The spirit of man, which God inspired, cannot together perish with this corporeal clod.
Spirits that live throughout, Vital in every part, not as frail man, In entrails, heart or head, liver or reins, Cannot but by annihilating die.
For books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a potency of life in them to be as active as that soul was whose progeny they are; nay, they do preserve as in a vial the purest efficacy and extraction of that living intellect that bred them.