TWO TREATISES. IN THE ONE OF WHICH, THE NATURE OF BODIES; IN THE OTHER, THE NATURE OF MAN'S SOUL; IS LOOKED INTO: IN WAY OF DISCOVERY, OF THE IMMORTALITY OF REASONABLE SOULS.  

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Animae naturam, absque totius natura,  
Sufficienter cognosci posse, existimas?   Plato in Phoedr. 
AT PARIS, Printed by giles BLAIZOT.  
M. DC. XLIIII. WITH PRIVILEGE.   

TO MY SON KENELME DIGBY.  
SON,  
The calamity of this time being such, as hath bereft me of the ordinary means of expressing my affection to you; I have been casting about, to find some other way of doing that in such sort, as you may receive most profit by it. Therein I soon pitched upon this consideration; That Parents owe unto their children, not only material subsistence for their body; but much more, spiritual contributions to their better part, their mind. I am much bound to God, that he hath endued you with one very capable of the best instructions: and withal, I do therefore esteem myself obliged, to do my utmost for moulding it to its most advantage. If my aim therein do prove successful, you will with more ease digest those inconveniences and distresses, which already you have begun to be acquainted with, and that threaten daily worse unto you. For how can a man suffer his hart to be dejected at the privation of any temporal blessings, whiles he considereth the inanity of them; and that nothing is worthy his serious thought, but what may accompany him to his eternal habitation? What needeth he fear the desolations of war, and the worst that they can do against him, who have his estate in their power, when he may be rich with a much nobler treasure, that none but himself can rob him of? Without doubt, he that shall seriously reflect upon the excellency of his own nature, and upon the admirable perfect and happy state he shall most certainly arrive unto, if he but wean himself from those worldly impediments, that here clog his soul's flight; can not choose but look with a disdainful eye, upon the glattering trifles, that weak spirits delight themselves withal. If he deem it not requisite (as of old, the famous wise man did) to throw away those encumbrances, to the end he may the more freely attend unto divine contemplations (for worldly goods, duly used, may be very advantageous both to one's self, and to others) yet at the least, he will not repine at fortunes recalling of what she formerly had but lent him, and but permitted him the use of.  
To the end than that you may be armed against the worst that may arrive unto you, in this unhappy state of affairs, in our distressed country; I send you those considerations of the nature and Immortality of humane souls, which of late, have been my chief entertainment. The progress you have already made in the study of Philosophy, hath (I am persuaded) enabled you to benefit yourself, with what I have written upon this subject: on the serious examining of which, if you will employ but half the time, that I have done in spinning out my thoughts, and weaving them into the piece you see, I doubt not but you will thereby receive so much contentment, as well as profit, that you will not repent you of your pains. Besides that, intellectual entertainments are the purest, and the noblest, and the most proportionate to man's nature, and prove the most delightful to him, when they are duly relished. You will presently agree, that the matter j handle, is the most important and the most weighty, within the whole extent of humane nature, for a worthy and a gallant person to employ himself about. The advantage which man hath over unreasonable creatures, is, that what he doth, is by election; and he is himself master of all his actions; whereas they are impelled by outward causes, unto all they do: it is properly said of them, that aguntur magis quam agunt: He only is free: and in all varieties of circumstances, hath the power to choose one, and to reject an other. Now, to have this election wisely made, and becoming a man, requireth that it be steered by knowledge. To do any thing well, a man must first know throughly all that concerneth the action he is about; and chiefly the end of it. And certainly, of all his actions, the government of himself, is the most important, and neereliest concerning him. The end of that government, and of all a man's aims, is by all men agreed to be Beatitude: that is, his being completely well, and in a condition of enjoying the most happiness, that his nature is capable of. For arrival whereunto, it is impossible to pitch upon the direct and sure means, unless it be first determined, whether the Beatitude we speak of, do belong to this life, or be not to be attained, till we come to the next: or rather, whether or no, there be an other life besides this, to be happy in. For if there remaineth an eternity unto us, after the short revolution of time we so swiftly run over here on earth; it is clear, that all the happiness which can be imagined in this fleeting state, is not valuable, in respect of the future; nor any thing we do here is considerable, otherwise then as it conduceth to the making our condition then, better or worse. Now the way to be sure of this, is either infallible authority, or evident science. They that rely on the first, depend of others: and they only who know, are absolutely complete of themselves; and have within themselves, the principles whereby to govern their actions, in what is of highest consequence to them. It is true, every body is not of a strain of wit and judgement, to be of this rank: and who are not, must be contented to believe others, and be satisfied with what is taught them. But he that will be of a superior orb, must make this his study. This is the adequate entertainment of a worthy person.  
To conceive how high and excellent, this science of governing a man in order to Beatitude in the next world is, we may consider, how among all arts that concern this life, the art of a statesman, unto whom belongeth to see a common wealthwell governed, is by much the noblest. All other arts, are but ministerial to him. He maketh use of the soldier, of the lawyer, of the orator, of the antiquary, of the physician, as best conduceth to the end he aimeth at, of making the commonwealth he governeth, happy and flourishing. All other meaner trades serve him in a yet lower degree. Yet after all, he must take his measures from the Metaphysitian or Divine. For since the government of a society of men, aimeth at giving them the best being they are capable of; and since Man's well being here in this life, is but instrumentally good, as being the means for him to be well in the next life; It is evident, that the statesman's art, is but instrumental to that, which showeth, how every particular man must govern his life, to be partaker of a happy eternity. And consequently, if a statesman have not this science, he must be subject to a braver man than himself, whose province is to direct all his actions unto this end. We are told, how reverently great Cesar listened to the discourses of learned Achoreus, how observant Alexander was of his Master Aristotle, how secure Nero trod, whiles Seneca guided his steps, how humble Constantine was to saint Syluesters precepts, how Charlemagne governed himself in his most important actions, by Alcuines advise: In a word, all the great men of antiquity, aswell among the Romans, as among the Grecians, had their Philosophers, and Divines in their kind, belonging to them; from whom they might derive rules of living and doing as they ought upon all occasions, if themselves were not Masters in that superior and all directing science. He that seeth not by his own light, must in this dangerous ocean steer by the lantern which an other hangeth out to him. If the person he relieth upon, either withholdeth the light from him, or showeth him a false one, he is presently in the dark, and can not fail of losing his way. How great an authority had the Augurs and priests among the rude Romans, to forbid any public act, or to break any assembly upon pretence of Religious duties, when they liked not the business that was in agitation? The like may interessed Divines among Christians do, if the ministers of state have not some insight into Divinity. He leadeth a vexatious life, that in his noblest actions is so gored with scruples, that he dareth not make a step, without the authority of an other to warrant him.  
Yet I do not conclude, that he whom I design by the character of a brave man, should be a professed or a complete Metaphytian or Divine, and consummate in every curious circumstance that belongeth to this science; it sufficeth him to know it in bulk; and to have so much Divinity, as in common occurrents, to be able to govern himself; and in special ones, to understand what, and why his Divine persuadeth him to any thing; so that even then, though not without help, yet he governeth himself, and is not blindly governed by an other. He that aimeth at being a perfect horseman, is bound to know in general (besides the art of riding) the nature and temper of horses; and to understand the different qualities of bits, saddles, and other vtensiles of a horseman; But the utmost exactness in these particulars, belongeth to farrier's, saddlers, smiths, and other tradesmens of all which, the judicious rider knoweth how to make due use, when he hath occasion, for his principal end; which is, orderly governing his horse. In like manner, he whom we design by a complete brave man, must know solidely the main end of what he is in the world for: and withal, must know how to serve himself when he pleaseth, and that it is needful to him, of the Divines high contemplations, of the Metaphysitians subtle speculations, of the natural Philosopher's minute observations, of the Mathematicians nice demonstrations; and of whatsoever else of particular professions, may conduce to his end; though without making any of them his professed business.  
To lay grounds for such knowledge as this, is the scope of my ensuing discourse. My first aim, was to beget it in myself: to which end, the digesting my thoughts into order, and the setting them down in writing, was necessary: for without such strict examination of them, as the penning them affordeth one means to make, they would hardly have avoided being disjointed and roving ones. Now that I have done that, my next aim is that you, unto whom I wish as much good as to myself, may reap as much benefit by the studying it, as I have done by the composing it. My end then being a private one (as looking no further than you my son, and myself) I have not endeavoured to express my conceptions either in the phrase, or in the language of the schools. It will serve our turn, to comprehend the substance, without confining ourselves to any scrupulous exactness, in what concerneth only form. And the same consideration hath made me pass slightly over many particulars, in my first Treatise of the Nature of Bodies; upon which learned and witty men might spin out large volumes. For in that part, I aim no further, then to show what may be effected by corporeal agents. There, possibility serveth my turn, as well as the determinate indivisible point of truth. I am obliged to that, only in my main great theme; which is the soul. In regard of which, the numerous crooked narrow crannies, and the restrained flexuous rivulets of corporeal things, are all contemptible, further than the knowledge of them serveth to the knowledge of the soul. And a gallant man, whose thoughts fly at the highest game, requireth no further insight into them, then to satisfy himself by what way they may be performed; and deemeth it far too mean for him, to dwell upon the subtlest of their mysteries for science sake.  
Besides this liberty that the scope I aim att alloweth me of passing very cursorily over sundry particulars; I find now at my reading over all together, what I have written to deliver it to the Printer, that even in that which I ought to have done to comply with my own design and expectation, I am fallen very short; so that if I had not unwarily too far engaged myself for the present publishing it, truly I should have kept it by me, till I had once again gone over it. I find the whole piece very confusedly done; the stile unequal and unpolished; many particulars (when they are not absolutely necessary to my main drift) too slightly touched, and far from being driven home: and in a word, all of it seemeth to be rather but a loose model and roughcast of what I design to do, than a complete work throughly finished.  
But since by my overforward promising of this piece to several friends, that have been very earnest for it, I have now brought myself to that pass, that it would ill become me to delay any longer the publishing of some thing upon this subject; and that obligations of an other nature permit me not at the present to dwell any longer upon this (besides that, so laysy a brain as mine is, groweth soon weary when it hath so entangled a skein as this is to unwind) I now send it you as it is; but with a promise, that at my first leisure, I will take a strict survey of it; and then in an other edition, will polish, correct and add what shall appear needful to me. If any man shall take the book out of your hand, invited by the title and subject to look into it; I pray you in my behalf represent unto him, how distant my profession is, and how contrary my education hath been, from writing of books. In every art, the plainest that is, there is an apprenticeship necessary, before it can be expected one should work in it a fashionable piece. The first attempts are always very imperfect ayminge; and are scarce discernible what they are meaned for, unless the master guide his scholar's hand. Much more will the same happen in so difficult and spiny an affair, as the writing upon such a nice and copious subject as this is, to one that is so wholly ignorant of the laws of method as I am.  
This free and ingenuous acknowledgement on my side, will I hope prevail with all ingenuous persons, who shall read what I have written, to advertise me fairly (if they judge it worth their while) of what they dislike in it: to the end that in an other more accurate edition, I may give them better satisfaction. For besides what faylinge may be in the matter, I can not doubt but that even in the expressions of it, there must often be great obscurity and shortness; which I, who have my thoughts filled with the things themselves, am not aware of. So that, what per adventure may seem very full to me, because every imperfect touch bringeth into my mind the entire notion and whole chain of circumstances belonging to that thing I have so often beaten upon; may appear very crude and maimed to a stranger, that can not guess what I would be at, otherwise then as my direct words do lead him.  
One thing more I shall wish you to desire of them who happily may peruse these two Treatises; aswell for their own sakes, as for mine. And that is, that they will not pass their censure upon any particular piece, or broken parcel of either of them, taken by itself. Let them draw the entire third through their fingers, and let them examine the consequentnesse of the whole body of the doctrine I deliver; and let them compare it by a like survey with what is ordinarily taught in the schools: and if they find in theirs, many bracks and short ends which can not be spun into an even piece, and in mine, a fair coherence throughout; I shall promise myself a favourable doom from them, and that they will have an acquiescence in themselves to what I have here presented them with: whereas, if they but ravel it over loosely, and pitch upon disputing against particular conclusions, that at the first encounter of them single, may seem harsh unto them, (which is the ordinary course of flashy wits, who can not fathom the whole extent of a large discourse) it is impossible but that they should be very much unsatisfyed of me; and go away with a persuasion, that some such truths as upon the whole matter are most evident (one stone in the arch supporting an other, and the whole) are mere chimaeras and wild paradoxes.  
But (Son) it is time my book should speak itself, rather than I speak any longer of it here. Read it carefully over, and let me see by the effects of your governing yourself, that you make such right use of it, as I may be comforted in having chosen you to bequeath it unto. God in heaven bless you. Paris the last of August 1644.  
Your Loving Father KENELME DIGBY.   

A TABLE OF THE CHAPTERS▪ AND MATTERS HANDLED IN THE FIRST TREATISE CONCERING BODIES.  

CHAP. I. 
THe Preface. A Preamble to the whole discourse; concerning notions in general. pag. 1. 
§. 1. 
Quantity is the first, and most obvious affection of a body ibid.  §. 2. 
Words do not express things as they are in themselves, but only as they are painted in the minds of men. pag. 2.  §. 3. 
The first error that may arise from hence; which is a multiplying of things, where no such multiplication is really found. ibid.  §. 4. 
A second error; the conceiving of many distinct things as really one thing. pag. 3.  §. 5. 
Great care to be taken to avoid the errors, which may arise from our manner of understanding things. pag. 4.  §. 6. 
Two sorts of words to express our notions, the one common to all men, the other proper to scholars. pag 5.  §. 7. 
Great errors arise by wresting words from their common meaning to express a more particular or studied notion. pag. 6.      

CHAP. II. 
Of Quantity. pag. 8. 
§. 1. 
We must know the vulgar and common notion of Quantity that we may understand the nature of it. ibid.  §. 2. 
Extension or divisibility is the common notion of Quantity. pag. 9  §. 3. 
Parts of Quantity are not actually in their whole. pag. 10.  §. 4. 
If parts were actually in their whole, Quantity would be composed of indivisibles. ibid.  §. 5. 
Quantity can not be composed of indivisibles. pag. 11.  §. 6. 
An objection to prove that parts are actually in Quantity; with a declaration of the mistake from whence it proceedeth. pag. 12.  §. 7. 
The solution of the former objection: andthat sense can not discern whether one part be distinguished from another, or no▪ pag. 13.  §. 8. 
An enumeration of the several specieses of Quantity, which confirmeth that the essence of it is divisibility. pag. 14.      

CHAP. III. 
Of Rarity and Density. pag. 15. 
§ 1. What is meant by Rarity and Density. 
ibid.  §. 2. 
It is evident that some bodies are rare and others dense; though obscure, how they are such. pag. 16.  §. 3. A brief enumeration of the several properties belonging to rare and dense bodies. 
ibid.  §. 4. 
The opinion of those Philosophers declared, who put rarity to consist in an actual division of a body into little pates. pag. 17.  §. 5. 
The former opinion rejected, and the ground of their error discovered. pag. 18.  §. 6. 
The opinion of those Philosophers related, who put rarity to consist in the mixtion of vacuity among bodies. pag. 19  §. 7. 
The opinion of vacuities refuted. pag. 20.  §. 8. 
Rarity and Density cosist in the several proportions which Quantity hath to its substance. pag. 22.  §. 9 
All must admit in Physical bodies, a Metaphysical composition. pag. 24.      

CHAP. IU. 
Of the four first qualities: and of the four Elements. pag. 26. 
§. 1. 
The notions of density and rarity have a latitude capable of infinite variety. ibid.  § 2. How moistness and dryness are begotten in dense bodies. 
pag. 27.  §. 3. 
How moistness and dryness are begotten in rare bodies. pag. 28.  §. 4. 
Heat is a property of rare bodies, and cold of dense ones. pag. 28.  §. 5. 
Of the two dense bodies, the less dense is more cold: but of the two rare ones, the less rare is less hot. pag. 29.  §. 6. 
The extreme dense body is more dry, than the extreme rare one. pag. 30.  §. 7. 
There are but four simple bodies: and these are rightly named Elements. ibid.  §. 8. 
The Author doth not determine whether every element doth comprehend under its name one only lowest species, or many: nor whether any of them be found pure. pag. 31.      

CHAP. V. 
Of the operations of the Elements in general. And of their Activities compared with one another. pag. 32. 
§ 1. The first operation of the Elements is division, out of which resulteth local motion. 
ibid.  §. 2. 
What place is: both notionally, and really. pag. 33.  §. 3. 
Local motion is that division, whereby a body chaneth its place. pag. 34.  §. 4. 
The nature of quantity of itself is sufficient to unite a body to its place. ibidem.  §. 5. 
All operations amongst bodies, are either local motion, or such as follow out of local motion. pag. 35.  §. 6. 
Earth compared to water in activity. pag. 36.  §. 7. 
The manner whereby fire getteth in fuel: proveth that it exceedeth earth in activity. ibid.  §. 8. 
The same is proved by the manner, whereby fire cometh ut of fuel and worketh upon other bodies. pag. 37.      

CHAP. VI 
Of Light: what it is. pag. 39 
§. 1. 
In what sense the Author rejecteth qualities. ibid.  §. 2. 
In what sense the Author doth admit of qualities. pag. 40.  §. 3. 
Five arguments proposed to prove that light is not a body. pag. 41.  §. 4. 
The two first reasons to prove light to be a body are, the resemblance it hath with fire; and because if it were a quality, it would always produce an equal to itself. pag. 42.  §. 5. 
The third reason; because if we imagine to ourselves the substance of fire to be rarifyed, it will have the same appearences which light hath. pag. 43.  §. 6. 
The fourth reason, from the manner of the genertion and corruption of light, which agreeth with fire. ibid.  §. 7. 
The fifth reason; because such properies belong to light as agree only unto bodies. pag. 45.      

CHAP. VII. 
Two objections answered against light being fire, a more ample proof of its being such. ibid. 
§. 1. 
That all light is hot and apt o heat. ibid.  §. 2. 
The reason why our bodies for the most part do not feel the heat of pure light. pag. 46.  §. 3. 
The experience of burningglasses, and of sultry gloomy weather, prove light to be fire. pag. 48.  §. 4. 
Philosopher's ought not to be judge ot things by the rules of vulgar people. ibidem.  §. 5. 
the different names of light and fire proceed from different notions of the same substance. pag. 49.  §. 6. 
The reason why many times fire and heat are deprived of light. pag. 50.  §. 7. 
What becometh of the body of light, when it dyeth ibid.  §. 8. 
An experiment of some who pretend, that light may be precipitated into powder. pag. 51.  §. 9 
The Author's opinion concerning lamps, pretended to have been found in tombs, with inconsumptible lights. ibid.      

CHAP. VIII. 
An answer to three other objections formely proposed, against light being a substance. pag. 53. 
§. 1. 
Light is not really in every part of the room it enlighteneth, nor filleth entirely any sensible part of it, though it seem to us to do so. ibid.  §. 2. 
Tha least sensible point of a diaphanous body, hath room sufficient to contain both air and light, together with a multitude of beams issuing from several lights, without penetrating one another. pag. 54.  §. 3. 
That light doth not enlighten any room in an instant; and that the great celerity of its motion doth make it inperceptible to our senses. pag. 56.  §. 4. 
The reason why the motion of light, is not discerned comingtowardes us; and that there is some real tardity in it. pag. 58.  §. 5. 
The planets are not certainly ever in that place where they appear to be. pag. 59  §. 6. The reason why light being a body, doth not by its motion shatter other bodies into pieces. 
ibid.  §. 7. 
The reason why the body of light is never perceived to be fanned by the wind. pag. 61.  §. 8. 
The reasons, for, and against lights being a body, compared together. pag. 62.  §. 9 
A summary repetition of the reasons, which prove that light is fire. ibidem.      

CHAP. IX. 
Of local Motion in common. pag 63. 
§. 1. 
No local motion can be performed without succession. ibid.  §. 2. 
Time is the common measure of all succession. pag. 64.  §. 3. 
What velocity is, and that it can not be infinite. ibid.  §. 4. 
No force so little, that is not able to move the greatest weight imaginable. pag. 65.  §. 5. 
The chief principle of Mechanikes deduced out of the former discourse. pag. 66.  §. 6. 
No movable can pass from rest to any determinate degree of velocity, or from a lesser degree to a greater, without passing through all the intermediate degrees, which are below the obtained degree. pag. 67.  §. 7. 
The conditions which help to motion, in the movable are three, in the medium, one. pag 69.  §. 8. 
No body hath any intrinsical virtue to move itself towards any determinate part of the universe. pag. 70.  §. 9 
The increase of motion is always made in the proportion of the odd numbers. ibid.  §. 10. 
No motion can increase for ever without coming to a period. pag. 72.  §. 11. 
Certain problems resolved concerning the proportion of some moving Agents compared to their effects. pag 73.  §. 12. 
When a movable cometh to rest, the motion doth decrease according to the rules of increase. pag. 75.      

CHAP. X. 
Of Gravity and Levity; and of Local Motion, commonly termed Natural. pag. 76. 
§. 1. 
Those motions are called natural, which have constant causes; and those violent, which are contrary to them. ibid.  §. 2. 
The first and most general operation of the sun, is the making and raising of atoms. ibid.  §. 3. 
The light rebounding from the earth with atoms, causeth two streams in the air; the one ascending the other descending; and both of them in a perpendicular line. pag. 77.  §. 4. 
A dense body placed in the air between the ascending and descending stream, must needs descend. pag. 78.  §. 5. 
A more particular explication of all the former doctrine touching gravity. pag. 79.  §. 6. Gravity and levity do not signify an intrinsical inclination to such a motion in the bodies themselves which are termed heavy and light. 
pag. 81.  §. 7. 
The more dense a body is, the more swiftly it descendeth. ibid.  §. 8. 
The velocity of bodies descending doth not increase in proportion to the difference that may be between their several densities. pag. 82.  §. 9 
More or less gravity doth produce a swifter or a slower descending of a heavy body. Aristotle's argument to disprove motion in vacuo, is made good. pag. 84.  §. 10. 
The reason why at the inferior quarter of a circle, a body doth descend faster by the arch of that quarter, then by the chord if it. pag. 85.      

CHAP. XI. 
An answer to objections against the causes of natural motion, avowed in the former chapter; and a refutation of the contrary opinion. pag. 86. 
§. 1. 
The first objection answered; why a hollow body descendeth slower than a solid one. pag. 86.  §. 2. 
The second objection answered, and the reasons shown, why atoms do continually overtake the descending dense body. pag. 88  §. 3. 
A curious question left undecided. pag. 89.  §. 4. 
The fourth objection answered; why the descent of the same heavy bodies, is equal in so great inequality of the atoms which cause it. ibidem.  §. 5. 
The reason why the shelter of a thick body doth not hinder the descent of that which is under it. pag. 91.  §. 6. 
The reason why some bodies sink, others swim. pag. 92.  §. 7. 
The fifth objection answered concerning the descending of heavy bodies in streams. pag. 93.  §. 8. 
The sixth objection answered: and that all heavy elements do weigh in their own spheres. pag. 95.  §. 9 
The seventh objection answered: and the reason why we do not feel the course of the air and atoms that beat continually upon us. ibidem.  §. 10. 
How in the same body, gravity may be greater than density, and density than gravity; though they be the same thing. pag. 96.  §. 11. 
The opinion of gravities being an intrinsical inclination of a body to the centre, refuted by reason. pag, 97.  §. 12. 
The same opinion refuted by several experiences. pag. 98.      

CHAP. XII. 
Of Violent Motion. pag. 100 
§. 1. 
The state of the question touching the cause of violent motion. ibid.  §. 2. 
That the medium is the only cause, which continueth violent motion. ibidem.  §. 3. 
A further explication of the former doctrine. pag. 101.  §. 4. That the air hath strength enough to continue violent motion in a movable. 
pag. 102.  §. 5. 
An answer to the first objection; that air is not apt to conserve motion▪ And how violent motion cometh to cease. pag 103.  §. 6. 
An answer to the second objection; that the air hath no power over heavy bodies. pag. 104.  §. 7. 
An answer to the third objection, that an arrow should fly faster broadwayes then long ways. pag. 105.      

CHAP. XIII. 
Of three sorts of violent motion, Reflection, undulation, and Refraction. pag. 106. 
§. 1. 
That reflection is a kind of violent motion. ibid.  §. 2. 
Reflection is made at equal angles. ibid.  §. 3. 
The causes and properties of undulation. pag. 107.  §. 4. 
Refraction at the entrance into the reflectent body is towards the perpendicular; at the going out it, is from it; when the second superficies is parallel to the first. pag. 108.  §. 5. 
A refutation of Monsieur Des Cartes his explication of refraction pag. 109.  §. 6. 
An answer to the arguments brought in favour of Monsieur Des Cartes his opinion. pag. 111.  §. 7. 
The true cause of refraction of light both at its entrance, and at its going out from the reflecting body. pag. 112.  §. 8. 
A general rule to know the nature of reflection and refractions in all sorts of surfaces. pag. 113.  §. 9 
A body of greater parts and greater pores, maketh a greater refraction than one of lesser parts and lesser pores. pag. 114.  §. 10. 
A confirmation of the former doctrine, out of the nature of bodies that refract light. pag. 115.      

CHAP. XIV. 
Of the composition, qualities, and generation of Mixed bodies. pag. 116. 
§. 1. 
The connexion of this chapter with the rest, and the Author's intent in it. ibid.  §. 2. 
That there is a least cise of bodies; and that this least cise is found in fire. pag. 117.  §. 3. 
The first conjunction of parts is in bodies of least cise; and it is made by the force of Quantity. ibid.  §. 4. 
The second sort of conjunction, is compactedness in simple Elements, and it proceedeth from density. pag. 118.  §. 5. 
The third conjunction is of parres of different Elements, and it proceedeth from quantity and density together. ibid.  §. 6. 
The reason why liquid bodies do easily join together; and dry ones difficultly. pag. 119.  §. 7. 
That no two hard bodies can touch one an other immediately. ibid.  §. 8. 
How mixed bodies are framed in general. pag. 121.  §. 9 The cause of the several degrees of solidity in mixed bodies. 
ibid.  §. 10. 
The rule where unto are reduced all the several combinations of Elements in compounding of mixed bodies. pag. 122.  §. 11. 
Earth and water are the basis of all permanent mixed bodies. pag. 123.  §. 12. 
What kind of bodies those are where water is the basis, and earth the predominant Element over the other two. ibid.  §. 13. 
Of those bodies, where water being the basis air is the predominant Element. ibid.  §. 14. 
What kind of bodies result, where water is the basis and fire the predominant Element. pag. 124.  §. 15. 
Of those bodies, where water is in excess, it alone being both the basis, and the predominant Element. pag. 125.  §. 16. 
Of those bodies, where Earth alone is the basis, and also the predominant in excess over the other three Elements. ibid.  §. 17. 
Of those bodies where Earth is the basis, and water the predominant Element over the other two. ibid.  §. 18. 
Of those bodies, where earth being the basis air is the predominant. ibid.  §. 19 
Of those bodies, where Earth being the basis, fire is the predominant. pag. 126.  §. 20. 
All the second qualities of mixed bodies, arise from several combinations of the first qualities: and are at last resolved into several degrees of rarity and density. ibid.  §. 21. 
That in the planets and stars there is a like variety of mixed bodies cause by light as here upon Earth. pag. 127.  §. 22. 
In what manner the Elements do work upon one an other, in the composition of mixed bodies: and in particular fire which is the most active. ibid.  §. 23. 
A particular declaration touching the generation of metals. pag. 128.      

CHAP. XV. 
Of the dissolution of Mixed bodies. pag. 130. 
§. 1. 
Why some bodies are brittle, and others tough, or apt to withstand outward violence the first instrument to dissolve mixed bodies. ibid.  §. 2. 
How outward violence doth work upon the most compacted bodies. pag. 131.  §. 3. 
The several effects of fire, the second and chiefest instrument to dissolve all compounded bodies. ibid.  §. 4. 
The reason why some bodies are not dissolved by fire. pag. 132.  §. 5. 
The reason why fire melteth gold, but can not consume it. ibid.  §. 6. 
Why lead is easily consumed and calcined by fire. pag. 133.  §. 7. 
Why and how some bodies are divided by fire into spirits, waters, oils saltes and earth. And what those parts are. ibid.  §. 8. 
How water the third instrument to dissolve bodies, dissolveth calx into salt; and so into Terra damnata. pag. 135.  §. 9 How water mingled with salt, becometh a most powerful Agent to dissolve other bodies. 
pag. 136.  §. 10. 
How putrefaction is caused. ibid.      

CHAP. XVI. 
An explication of certain Maxims touching the operations, and qualities of bodies: and whether the Elements be found pure in any part of the world. pag. 137. 
§. 1. 
What is the sphere of activity in corporeal Agents. ibid.  §. 2. 
The reason why no body can work in distance. pag. 138.  §. 3. 
An objection answered against the manner of explicating the former axiom. pag. 139  §. 4. 
Of reaction: and first in pure local motion, that each Agent must suffer in acting and act in suffering. ibid.  §. 5. 
The former doctrine applied to other local motions designed by particular names. And that Suisseths' argument is of no force against this way of doctrine. pag. 141.  §. 6. 
Why some notions do admit of intention and Remission; and others do not. ibid.  §. 7. 
That in every part of our habitable world; all the four Elements, are found pure in small atoms; but not in any great bulk. pag. 142.      

CHAP. XVII. 
Of Rarefaction and Condensation the two first motions of particular bodies. pag. 144. 
§. 1. 
The Author's intent in this and the following chapters. ibid.  §. 2. 
That bodies may be rarifyed, both by outward heat; and how this is performed. pag. 145.  §. 3. 
Of the great effects foe Rarefaction. pag. 147.  §. 4. 
The first manner of condensation, by heat. pag. 148.  §. 5. 
The second manner of condensation by cold. pag. 149.  §. 6. 
That ice is not water rarifyed but condensed. pag. 151.  §. 7. 
How wind, snow, and hail are made; and wind by rain allayed. pag. 152.  §. 8. 
How parts of the same or divers bodies, are joined more strongly together by condensation. pag. 153.  §. 9 
Vacuites can not be the reason, why water impregnated to the full with one kind of salt, will notwithstanding receive more of an other. pag. 154.  §. 10. 
The true reason of the former effect. pag. 155.  §. 11. 
The reason why bodies of the same nature do join more easily together than others. pag. 156.      

CHAP. XVIII. 
Of an other motion belonging to particular bodies, called Attraction; and of certain operations, termed Magical. pag. 157. 
§. 1. 
What Attraction is, and from whence it proceedeth. ibid.  §. 2. 
The true sense of the Maxim, that Nature abhorreth from vacuity. pag. 158.  §. 3. The true reason of attraction. 
pag. 159.  §. 4. 
Water may be brought by the force of attraction to what height soever. pag. 160.  §. 5. 
The doctrine touching the attraction of water in syphons. ibid.  §. 6. 
That the syphon doth not prove water to weigh in its own orb. pag. 161.  §. 7. 
Concerning attraction caused by fire. pag. 162.  §. 8. 
Concerning attraction made by virtue of hot bodies, amulets etc. pag. 163.  §. 9 
The natural reason given for divers operations, esteemed by some to be magical. ibid.      

CHAP. XIX. 
Of three other motions belonging to particular body's Filtration, Restitution, and electrical attraction. pag. 166. 
§. 1. 
What is Filtration; and how it is effected. ibid.  §. 2. 
What causeth the water in filtration to ascend. pag. 167.  §. 3. 
Why the filter will not drop unless the label hang lower than the water. ibid.  §. 4. 
Of the motion of Restitution: and why some bodies stand bend, others not. pag. 168.  §. 5. 
Why some bodies return only in part to their natural figure; others entirely. pag. 170.  §. 6. 
Concerning the nature of those bodies which do shrink and stretch. pag. 171.  §. 7. 
How great and wonderful effects, proceed from small, plain, and simple principles. ibid.  §. 8. 
Concerning electrical attraction, and the causes of it. pag. 172.  §. 9 
Cabeus his opinion refuted concerning the cause of electrical motions. pag. 174.      

CHAP. XX. 
Of the Loadestones generation; and its particular motions. pag. 175. 
§. 1. 
The extreme heat of the sun under the zodiac, draweth a stream of air from each Pole into the torride zone. ibid.  §. 2. 
The atoms of these two streams coming together are apt to incorporate with one an other. pag. 176.  §. 3. 
By the meeting and mingling together of these streams at the Equator, divers rivulets of atoms of each Pole, are continuated from one Pole to te other. pag. 177.  §. 4. 
Of these atoms incorporated with some fit matter in the bowels of the earth, is made a stone. pag. 179.  §. 5. 
This stone worketh by emanations, joined with agreeing streams that meet them in the air; and in fine it is a loadstone. ibid.  §. 6. 
A method for making experiences upon any subject. pag. 181.  §. 7. The loadestones generation by atoms flowing from both Poles, is confirmed by experiments observed in the stone itself. 
ibid.  §. 8. 
Experiments to prove that the loadstone worketh by emanations▪ meeting with agreeing streams. pag. 182.      

CHAP. XXI. 
Positions drawn out of the former doctrine, and confirmed by experimental proofs. pag. 185. 
.1. The operations of the loadstone are wrought by bodies and not by qualities. 
ibid.  §. 2. 
Objections against the former position answered. pag. 186.  §. 3. 
The loadstone is imbued with his virtue from an other body. ibid.  §. 4. 
The virtue of the loadstone is a double, and not one simple virtue. 188.  §. 5. 
The virtue of the laodestone worketh more strongly in the Poles of it then in any other part. ibid.  §. 6. 
The laodestone sendeth forth its emanations spherically. Which are of two kinds: and each kind is strongest in that hemisphere, through whose polary parts they issue out. ibid.  §. 7. 
Putting two loadestones within the sphere of one an other, every part of one laodestone, doth not agree with every part of the other loadstone. pag 189.  §. 8. 
Concerning the declination and other respects of a needle, towards the loadstone it toucheth. ibid.  §. 9 
The virtue of the laodestone goeth from end to end in lines almost paralelle to the axis. pag. 191.  §. 10. 
The virtue of loadstone is not perfectly spherical though the stone be such. pag. 192.  §. 11. 
The intention of nature in all the operations of the loadstone, is to make an union betwixt the attractive and attracted bodies. ibid.  §. 12. 
The main globe of the earth is not a loadstone. ibid.  §. 13. 
The laodestone is generated in all parts or climates of the earth. pag. 193.  §. 14. 
The conformity betwixt the two motions of magnetike things, and of heavy things. ibid.      

CHAP. XXII. 
A solution of certain Problems concerning the loadstone, and a short sum of the whole doctrine touching it. pag. 194. 
§. 1. 
Which is the North, and which the South Pole of a loadstone. ibid.  §. 2. 
Whether any bodies besides magnetike ones be attractive. ibid.  §. 3. 
Whether an iron placed perpendicularly towards the earth doth get a magnetical virtue of pointing towards the north, or towards the south in that end that lieth downwards. pag. 195.  §. 4. 
Why loadestones affect iron better than one an other. ibid.  §. 5. 
Gilberts reason refuted touching a capped loadstone, that taketh up more iron than one not capped; and an iron impregnated that in some case draweth more strongly than the stone itself. ibid.  §. 6. 
Galileus his opinion touching the former effects refuted. pag. 196.  §. 7. 
The Author's solution to the former questions. pag. 197.  §. 8. The reason why in the former case, a lesser loadstone doth draw the interjacent iron from the greater. 
pag. 198.  §. 9 
Why the variation of a touched needle from the north, is greater, the nearer you go to the Pole. pag. 199.  §. 10. 
Whether in the same part of the world a touched needle may at one time vary more from the north and at an other time less. pag. 200.  §. 11. 
The whole doctrine of the loadstone summed up in short. pag. 201.      

CHAP. XXIII. 
A description of the two sorts of living creatures; plants, and Animals: and how they are framed in common to perform vital motion. pag. 203. 
§. 1. 
The connexion of the following Chapters with the precedent ones. ibid.  §. 2. 
Concerning several compositions of mixed bodies. pag. 204.  §. 3. 
Two sorts of living creatures. pag. 205.  § 4. An engine to express the first sort of living creatures. 
ibid.  §. 5. 
An other engine by which may be expressed the second sort of living creatures. pag. 207.  §. 6. 
The two former engines and some other comparisons applied to express the two several sorts of living creatures. ibid.  §. 7. 
How plants are framed. pag. 209.  §. 8. 
How sensitive creatures are form. pag. 210.      

CHAP. XXIV. 
A more particular survey of the generation of Animals; in which is discovered what part of the animal is first generated. pag. 213, 
§. 1. 
The opinion that the seed containeth formally every part of the parent. ibid.  §. 2. 
The former opinion rejected. pag. 214.  §. 3. 
The Author's opinion of this question. pag. 215.  §. 4. 
Their opinion refuted, who hold that every thing containeth formally all things. pag. 216.  §. 5. 
The Author's opinion concerning the generation of Animals declared, and confirmed. pag. 217.  §. 6. 
That one substance is changed into an other. pag. 219.  §. 7. 
Concerning the hatching of chickens, and the generation of other Animals. pag. 220.  §. 8. 
From whence it happeneth that the deficiences, or excrescences of the parents body, are often seen in their children. pag. 221  §. 9 
The difference between the Author's opinion, and the former one. p. 222  §. 10. 
That the hart is imbued with the general specifike virtues of the whole body; whereby is confirmed the doctrine of the two former paragraphes. pag. 223.  §. 11. 
That the hart is the first part generated in a living creature. pag. 225.      

CHAP. XXV. 
How a Plant or Animal cometh to that figure it hath. pag. 226. 
§. 1. 
That the figure of an Animal is produced by ordinary second causes, as well as any other corporeal effect. pag. 226.  § 2. That the several figures of bodies proceed from a defect in one of ●he three dimensions, caused by the concurrence of accidental causes. 
pag. 227  §. 3. 
The former doctrine is confirmed by several instances. pag 228  § 4. The same doctrine applied to plants. 
pag. 229  §. 5. 
The same doctrine declared in leaves of trees. ibid.  §. 6. 
The same applied to the bodies of Animals pag. 230  §. 7. 
In what sense the Author doth admit of Vis formatrix. pag. 231      

CHAP. XXVI. 
How motion beginneth in living creatures. And of the motion of the hart; circulation of the blood; Nutrition; Augmentation; and corruption or death. pag. 232 
§. 1. 
Fromwhence doth proceed the primary motion and growth in plants. ibid.  §. 2. 
Monsieur des Cartes his opinion touching the motion of the hart. p. 233  §. 3. 
The former opinion rejected. ibid.  §. 4. 
The Author's opinion concerning the motion of the hart. pag. 234  §. 5. 
The motion of the hart dependeth originally of its fibers irrigated by blood. pag. 236  §. 6. 
An objection answered against the former doctrine. pag. 237  §. 7. 
The circulation of the blood, and other effects that follow the motion of the hart. pag. 238  §. 8. 
Of Nutrition. pag. 239  §. 9 
Of Augmentation. pag. 240  §. 10. 
Of death and sickness. pag. 241      

CHAP. XXVII. 
Of the motions of sense; and of the sensible qualities in general; and in particular of those which belong to Touch, Taste, and Smelling. pag. 242 
§. 1. 
The connexion of the subsequent chapters with the precedent. ibid.  §. 2. 
Of the senses and sensible qualities in general. And of the end for which they serve. ibid.  §. 3. 
Of the sense of touching: and that both it and its qualities are bodies. 244  §. 4. 
Of the taste and its qualities: that they are bodies. pag. 245  §. 5. 
That the smell and its qualities are real bodies. ibid.  §. 6. 
Of the conformity betwixt the two senses of smelling and tasting. p. 246  §. 7. 
The reason why the sense of smelling is not so perfect in man as in beasts: with a wonderful history of a man who could wind a sent as well as any beast. pag. 247      

CHAP. XXVIII. 
Of the sense of hearing, and of the sensible quality sound. p. 249 
§. 1. 
Of the sense of hearing: and that sound is purely motion. ibid.  §. 2. Of divers arts belonging to the sense of hearing: all which confirm that sound is nothing but motion. 
pag. 250  §. 3. 
The same is confirmed by the effects caused by great noises. pag. 251  §. 4. 
That solid bodies may convey the motion of the air or sound to the organ of hearing. pag. 252  §. 5. 
Where the motion is interrupted there is no sound. ibid.  §. 6. 
That not only the motion of the air but all other motions coming to our ears make sounds. pag. 253  §. 7. 
How one sense may supply the want of an other. ibid.  §. 8. 
Of one who could discern sounds of words with his eyes. pag. 254  §. 9 
divers reasons to prove sound to be nothing else but a motion of some real body. pag. 256      

CHAP. XXIX. 
Of Sight; and Colours. pag. 257 
§. 1. 
That Colours are nothing but light mingled with darkness; or the disposition off a body's superficies apt to reflect light so mingled. ibid.  §. 2. 
Concerning the disposition of those bodies which produce white or black colours. pag. 259  §. 3. 
The former doctrine confirmed by Aristotle's authority, reason, and experience. ibid.  §. 4. 
How the diversity of colours do follow out of various degrees of rarity and density. pag. 260  §. 5. 
Why some bodies are Diaphanous others opacous. pag. 261  §. 6. 
The former doctrine of colours confirmed by the generation of white and Black in bodies. pag. 262      

CHAP. XXX. 
Of luminous or apparent Colours. pag. 262 
§. 1. 
Apparitions of colours through a prism or triangular glass are of two sorts. ibid.  §. 2. 
The several parts of the object make several angles at their entrance into the prism. pag. 263  §. 3. 
The reason why some times the same object appeareth through the prism in two places: and in one place more lively, in the other place more dim. ibid.  §. 4. 
The reason of the various colours that appear in looking through a prism. pag. 264  §. 5. 
The reason why the prism in one position, may make the colours appear quite contrary to what they did, when it was in an other position. pag. 265  §. 6. 
The reason of the various colours in general by pure light passing through a prism. pag 266  §. 7. 
Upon what side every colour appeareth that is made by pure light passing through a prism. pag. 267      

CHAP. XXXI. 
The causes of certain appearances in luminous Colours; with a conclusion of the discourse touching the senses and the sensible qualities. pag. 268 
§. 1. 
The reason of each several colour in particular caused by light passing through a prism. pag. 268  §. 2. 
A difficult problem resolved touching the prism. pag. 270  §. 3. 
Of the rainbow, and how by the colour of any body we may know the composition of the body itself. pag. 272  §. 4. 
That all the sensible qualities are real bodies resulting out of several mixtures of rarity and density. pag. 273  §. 5. 
Why the senses are only five in number: with a conclusion of all the former doctrine concerning them. pag. 274      

CHAP. XXXII. 
Of sensation, or the motion whereby sense is properly exercised. 275 
§. 1. 
Monsieur des Cartes his opinion touching sensation. ibid.  §. 2. 
The Author's opinion touching sensation. pag. 276  §. 3. 
Reasons to persuade the Author's opinion. pag. 277  §. 4. 
That vital spirits are the immediate instruments of sensation by conveying sensible qualities to the brain. pag. 278  §. 5. 
How sound is conveyed to the brain by vital spirits. pag. 279  §. 6. 
How colours are conveyed to the brain by vital spirits. pag. 280  §. 7. 
Reasons against Monsieur des Cartes his opinion. ibid.  §. 8. 
That the symptoms of the palsy do no way confirm Monsieur des Cartes his opinion. pag. 282  §. 9 
That Monsieur des Cartes his opinion, can not give a good account, how things are conserved in the memory. ibid.      

CHAP. XXXIII. 
Of Memory. pag. 284 
§. 1. 
How things are conserved in the memory. ibid.  §. 2. 
How things conserved in the memory are brought back into the fantasy. pag. 285  §. 3. 
A Confirmation of the former doctrine. pag. 286  § 4. How things renewed in the fantasy, return with the same circumstances that they had at first. 
pag. 286  §. 5. 
How the memory of things past is lost, or confounded: and how it is repaired again. pag. 287      

CHAP. XXXIV. 
Of voluntary motion: Natural faculties: and passions. pag. 288 
§. 1. 
Of what matter the brain is composed. ibid.  §. 2. 
What is voluntary motion. pag. 289  §. 3. 
What those powers are which are called natural faculties. ibid.  §. 4. 
How the attractive and secretive faculties work. pag. 290  §. 5. 
Concerning the concoctive faculty. pag. 291  §. 6. 
Concerning the retentive and expulsive faculties. ibid.  §. 7. 
Concerning expulsion made by Physic. pag. 292  §. 8. 
How the brain is moved to work voluntary motion. pag. 292  §. 9 
Why pleasing objects do dilate the spirits, and displeasing one's contract them. pag. 294  §. 10. Concerning the five senses for what use and end they are. 
ibid.      

CHAP. XXXV. 
Of the material instrument of Knowledge and Passion; of the several effects of Passions; of Pain and Pleasure; and how the vital spirits are sent from the brain into the intented parts of the body, without mistaking their way. pag. 296 
§. 1. 
That Septum Lucidum is the seat of the fancy. ibid.  §. 2. 
What causeth us to remember not only the object itself, but also that we have thought of it before. pag. 297  §. 3. 
How the motions of the fantasy, are derived to the hart. ibid.  §. 4. 
Of pain and pleasure. pag. 298  §. 5. 
Of Passion. ibid.  §. 6. 
Of several pulses caused by passions. pag. 299  §. 7. 
Of several other effects caused naturally in the body by passions. p. 300  §. 8. 
Of the diaphragma. pag. 302  §. 9 
Concerning pain and pleasure caused by the memory of things past. pag. 303  §. 10. 
How so small bodies as atoms are, can cause so great motions in the hart. pag. 304  §. 11. 
How the vital spirits sent from the brain, do run to the intended part of the body without mistake. ibid.  §. 12. 
How men are blinded by Passion. pag. 305      

CHAP. XXXVI. 
Of some actions of beasts, that seem to be formal acts of reason, as doubting, resolving, inventing. pag. 306 
§. 1. 
The order and connexion of the subsequent Chapters. ibid.  §. 2. 
From whence proceedeth the doubting of beasts. pag. 307  §. 3. 
Concerning the invention of Foxes and other beasts. ibid.  §. 4. 
Of foxes that catch hens by lying under their roost, and by gazing upon them. pag. 309  §. 5. 
From whence proceedeth the fox's invention to rid himself of fleas. pag. 311  §. 6. 
An explication of two other inventions of foxes. pag. 312  §. 7. 
Concerning Mountagues argument to prove that dogs make syllogisms. ibid.  §. 8. 
A declaration how some tricks are performed by foxes, which seem to argue discourse. pag. 313  §. 9 
Of the jaccatrays invention in calling beasts to himself. pag. 314  §. 10. 
Of the jaccalls' design in serving the lion. ibid.  §. 11. 
Of several inventions of fishes. ibid.  §. 12. 
A discovery of divers things done by hares, which seem to argue discourse. pag. 315  §. 13. 
Of a fox reported to have weighed a goose, before he would venture with it over a river; and of fabulous stories in common. pag. 316  §. 14. Of the several cry and tones of beasts: with a refutation of those authors who maintain them to have complete languages. 
pag. 317      

CHAP. XXXVII. 
Of the docility of some irrational animals; and of certain continuate actions of a long tract of time so orderly performed by them, that they seem to argue knowledge in them. pag. 319 
§. 1. 
How hawks and other creatures are taught to do what they are browght up to. ibid.  §. 2. 
Of the Baboon that played on a guitarre. 320  §. 3. 
Of the teaching of Elephants and other beasts to do divers tricks. 321  §. 4. 
Of the orderly train of actions performed by beasts in breeding their young ones. pag. 322      

CHAP. XXXVIII. 
Of prescience of future eventes, providencies, the knowing of things never seen before; and such other actions, observed in some living creatures; which seem to be even above the reason that is in man himself. pag. 327 
§. 1. 
Why beasts are afraid of men. ibid.  §. 2. 
How some qualities caused at first by chance in beasts, may pass by generation to the whole offspring. pag. 328  §. 3. 
How the parent's fantasy doth oftentimes work strange effects in their issue. pag. 329  §. 4. 
Of Antipathies. pag. 330  §. 5. 
Of Sympathies. pag. 333  §. 6. 
That the Antipathy of beasts towards one an other, may be taken away by assuefaction. pag. 334  §. 7. 
Of longing marks seen in children. pag. 335  §. 8. 
Why divers men hate some certain meats, and particularly cheese. 336  §. 9 
Corcerning the providence of Aunts in laying up in store for winter. 337  §. 10. 
Concerning the foreknowing of beasts. pag. 338      

The Conclusion of the first Treatise. 
pag. 340     

A TABLE OF THE CHAPTERS AND MATTERS HANDLED IN THE SECOND TREATISE CONCERNING MAN'S SOUL.  
THE Preface. 
pag. 349   

CHAP. 1. 
Of simple Apprehensions. pag. 355 
§. 1. 
What is a right apprehension of a thing. ibid.  §. 2. 
The very thing itself is truly in his understanding who rightly apprehendeth it. pag. 356  §. 3. 
The Apprehension of things coming unto us by our senses, are resoluable into other more simple apprehensions. pag. 358  §. 4. 
The apprehension of a Being is the most simple and Basis of all the rest. ibid.  §. 5. 
The apprehension of a thing is in next degree to that of Being, and it is the Basis of all the subsequent ones. ibid.  §. 6. 
The apprehension of things known to us by our senses, doth consist in certain respects betwixt two things. pag. 359  §. 7. 
Respect or relation hath not really any formal being, but only in the apprehension of man. ibid.  §. 8. 
That Existence or being is the proper affection of man: and that man's soul is a comparing power. pag. 360  §. 9 
A thing by coming into the understanding of man, looseth nothing of its own peculiar nature. ibid.  §. 10. 
A multitude of things may be united in man's understanding without being mingled or confounded together. pag. 361  §. 11. 
Of abstracted and concrete terms. pag. 362  §. 12. 
Of universal notions. pag. 363  §. 13. 
Of apprehending a multitude under one notion. pag. 364  §. 14. 
The power of the understanding reacheth as far as the extent of being. pag. 365      

CHAP. II. 
Of Thinking and Knowing. pag. 365 
§. 1. 
How a judgement is made by the understanding. ibid.  §. 2. 
That two or more apprehensions are identifyed in the soul by uniting them in the stock of being. pag. 366  §. 3. 
How the notions of a substantive and an adjective, are united in the soul, by the common stock of being. pag. 367  §. 4. 
That a settled judgement becometh a part of our soul. pag. 368  §. 5. 
How the soul cometh to deem or settle a judgement. ibid.  §. 6. 
How opinion is begotten in the understanding. pag. 371  §. 7. 
How faith is begotten in the understanding. pag. 372  §. 8. 
Why truth is the perfection of a reasonable soul: and why it is not found in simple apprehensions as well as in Enuntiations. ibid.  §. 9 
What is a solid judgement, and what a slight one. pag. 373  §. 10. 
What is an acute judgement, and what a dull one. pag. 375  §. 11. 
In what consisteth quickness and Clearness of judgement: and there oposite vices. ibid.      

CHAP. III. 
Of Discoursing. pag. 376 
§. 1. 
How discourse is made. ibid.  §. 2. 
Of the figures and moods of Syllogisms. ibid.  §. 3. 
That the life of man as man, doth consist in discourse, and of the vast extent of it. pag. 377  §. 4. 
Of humane actions, and of those that concern ourselves. pag. 379  §. 5. 
Of humane actions as they concern our neighbours. pag. 380  §. 6. 
Of Logic. ibid.  §. 7. 
Of Grammar. pag. 381  §. 8. 
Of Rhetoric. ibid.  §. 9 
Of Poetry. pag. 382  §. 10. 
Of the Power of speaking. ibid.  §. 11. 
Of arts that concern dumb and insensible creatures. pag. 383  §. 13. 
Of Arithmetic. ibid.  §. 14. 
Of Prudence. ibid.  §. 15. 
Observations upon what hath been said in this Chapter. pag. 384      

CHAP. FOUR 
How a man proceedeth to Action. pag. 386 
§. 1. 
That humane actions proceed from two several principles, understanding and sense. ibid.  §. 2. 
How our general and inbred maxims do concur to humane action. pag. 387  §. 3. 
That the rules and maxims of arts do work positively in us though we think not of them. pag. 388  §. 4. 
How the understanding doth cast about when it wanteth sufficient grounds for action. pag. 389  §. 5. How reason doth rule over sense and passion. 
ibid.  §. 6. 
How we recall our thoughts from distractions. pag 390  §. 7. 
How reason is sometimes overcome by sense and passion. pag. 391      

CHAP. V. 
Containing proofs out of our single apprehensions, that our soul is incorporeal. pag. 393 
§. 1. 
The connection of the subsequent Chapters with the precedent. ibid.  §. 2. 
The existence of corporeal things in the soul by the power of apprehension, doth prove her to be immaterial. pag. 394  §. 3. 
The notion of being, which is innate in the soul, doth prove the same. ibid.  §. 4. 
The same is proved by the notion of respects. pag. 396  §. 5. 
That corporeal things are spiritualised in the understanding by means of the souls working in and by respects. ibid.  §. 6. 
That th● abstracting of notions from all particular and individual accidents, doth prove the immateriality of the soul. pag. 397  §. 7. 
That the universality of abstracted notions doth prove the same. ibid.  §. 8. 
That collective apprehensions do prove the same. pag. 398  §. 9 
The operations of the soul drawing always from multitude to unity, do prove the same. 399  §. 10. 
The difference betwixt the notion of a thing in our understanding, and the impression that correspondeth to the same thing in our fancy, doth prove the same. pag. 400  §. 11. 
The apprehension of negations and privations do prove the same. 401      

CHAP. VI 
Containing proofs of our soul's operations in knowing or deeming any thing, that she is of a spiritual nature. pag. 400 
§. 1. 
The manner of judging or deeming by apprehending two things to be identified doth prove the soul to be immaterial. ibid.  §. 2. 
The same is proved by the manner of apprehending opposition in a negative judgement. pag. 403  §. 3. 
That things in themselves opposite to one an other having no opposition in the soul, doth prove the same. pag. 404  §. 4. 
That the first truths are identified to the soul. pag. 405  §. 5. 
That the soul hath an infinite capacity, and consequently is immaterial. pag. 406  §. 6. 
That the opposition of contradictory propositions in the Soul doth prove her immateriality. ibid.  §. 7. 
How propositions of eternal truth, do prove the immateriality of the soul. pag. 407      

CHAP. VII. 
That our discoursing doth prove our soul to be incorpore all. pag. 408 
§. 1. 
That in discoursing the soul containeth more in it at the same time than is in the fantasy, which proveth her to be immaterial. ibid.  §. 2. 
That the nature of discourse doth prove the soul to be ordered to infinite knowledge, and consequently to be immaterial. pag. 409  §. 3. 
That the most natural objects of the soul are immaterial, and consequently the soul herself is such. ibid.      

CHAP. VIII. 
Containing proofs out of our manner of proceeding to action, that our soul is incorporeal. pag. 410 
§. 1. 
That the souls being a power to order things proveth her to be immaterial. ibid.  §. 2. 
That the souls being able to move without being moved, doth prove her to be immaterial. pag. 411  §. 3. 
That the souls proceeding to action with an universality, and indifferency doth prove the same. pag. 412  §. 4. 
That the quiet proceeding of reason doth prove the same. pag. 414  §. 5. 
A conclusion of what hath been said hitherto in this second Treatise. ibid.      

CHAP. IX. 
That our soul is a Substance, and Immortal. pag. 415 
§. 1. 
That Man's Soul is a substance. ibid.  §. 2. 
That man is compounded of some other substance besides his body. ibid.  §. 3. 
That the soul doth subsist of itself independently of the body. pag. 416  §. 4. 
Two other arguments to prove the same: one positive, the other negative. pag. 417  §. 5. 
The same is proved because the soul can not be obnoxious to the cause of mortality. ibid.  §. 6. 
The same is proved because the soul hath no contrary. pag. 418  §. 7. 
The same is proved from the end for which the soul was created. ibid.  §. 8. 
The same is proved because she can move without being moved. pag. 420  §. 9 
The same is proved from her manner of operation which is grounded in being. ibid.  §. 10. 
Lastly it is proved from the science of Morality, the principles whereof would be destroyed if the soul were mortal. pag. 421      

CHAP. X. 
Declaring what the soul of a man, separated from his body, is: and of her knowledge and manner of working. pag. 422 
§. 1. 
That the soul is one simple knowing act which is a pure substance and nothing but substance. ibid.  §. 2. 
That a separated soul is in no place, and yet is not absent from any place. pag. 424  §. 3. 
That a separated soul is not in time nor subject to it. ibid.  §. 4. 
That the soul is an active substance, and all in it is activity. pag. 425  §. 5. 
A description of the soul. pag. 426  §. 6. 
That a separated soul knoweth all that which she knew whilst she w●s in her body. ibid.  §. 7. 
That the least knowledge which the soul acquireth in her body of any one thing, doth cause in her, when she is separated from her body a complete knowledge of all things whatsoever. pag. 427  §. 8. 
An answer to the objections of some Peripatetikes who maintain the soul to perish with the body. pag. 429  §. 9 The former Peripatetikes refuted out of Aristotle. 
pag. 431  §. 10. 
The operations of a separated soul compared to her operations in her body. ibid.  §. 11. 
That a separated soul is in a state of pure being, and consequently immortal. pag. 432      

CHAP. XI. 
Showing what effects, the divers manners of living in this world, do cause in a soul, after she is separated from her body. p. 433 
§. 1. 
That a soul in this life is subject to mutation, and may be perfected in knowledge. ibid.  §. 2. 
That the knowledges which a soul getteth in this life, will make her knowledge in the next life more perfect, and firm. pag. 434  §. 3. 
That the souls of men addicted to science whilst they lived here, are more perfect in the next world, than the souls of unlearned men. pag. 435  §. 4. 
That those souls which embrace virtue in this world will be most perfect in the next, and those which embrace vice most miserable. ibid.  §. 5. 
The state of a vicious soul in the next life. pag. 437  §. 6. 
The fundamental reason why as well happiness as misery is so excessive in the next life. pag. 439  §. 7. 
The reason why man's soul requireth to be in a body, and to live for some space of time joined with it. pag. 441  §. 8. 
That the misery of the soul in the next world, proceedeth out of inequality, and not out of falsity of her judgements. pag. 442      

CHAP. XII. 
Of the perseverance of a soul, in the state she findeth herself in, at her first separation from her body. pag. 443 
§. 1. 
The explication, and proof of that maxim, that, if the cause be in act, the effect must also be. ibid.  §. 2. 
The effects of all such agents as work instantaneously, are complete in the first instant that the agents are put. ibid.  §. 3. 
All pure spirits do work instantaneously. pag. 444  §. 4. 
That a soul separated from her body can not suffer any change after the first instant of her separation. ibid.  §. 5. 
That temporal sins are justly punished with eternal pains. pag. 445  The Conclusion. 
pag. 446       

THE PREFACE.  
THIS writing was designed to have seen the light under the name of one treatise. But after it was drawn in paper; as I cast a view over it, I found the prooemiall part (which is that which treateth of Bodies) so ample in respect of the other (which was the end of it; and for whose sake I meddled with it) that I readily apprehended my reader would think I had gone much astray from my text, when proposing to speak of the immortality of Man's Soul, three parts of four of the whole discourse, should not so much as in one word mention that soul, whose nature and proprieties I aimed at the discovery of. To avoid this incongruity, occasioned me to change the name and unity of the work; and to make the survey of bodies, a body by itself▪ though subordinate to the treatise of the soul. Which notwithstanding it be less in bulk then the other; yet I dare promise my Reader, that if he bestow the pains requisite to perfect himself in it, he will find as much time well spent in the due reading of it, as in the reading of the former treatise, though far more large.  
But I discern an objection obvious to be made; or rather a question; why I should spend so much time in the consideration of bodies, whereas none that hath formerly written of this subject, hath in any measure done the like. I might answer that they had, upon other occasions, first written of the nature of bodies: as I may instance in Aristotle; and sundry others, who either have themselves professedly treated the science of bodies, or have supposed that part sufficiently performed by other pens. But truly, I was by an unavoidable necessity hereunto obliged: which is, a current of doctrine that at this day, much reigneth in the Christian Schools, where bodies and their operations, are explicated after the manner of spiritual things. For we having very slender knowledge of spiritual substances, can reach no further into their nature, then to know that they have certain powers, or qualities; but can seldom penetrate so deep, as to descend to the particulars of such Qualities, or Powers. Now our modern Philosophers have introduced such a course of learning into the schools, that unto all questions concerning the proper natures of bodies, and their operations, it is held sufficient to answer, they have a quality, or a power to do such a thing. And afterwards they dispute whether this Quality or Power, be an Entity distinct from its subject, or no; and how it is separable, or unseperable from it, and the like. Conformable to this, who will look into the books, which are in vogue in these schools, shall find such answers and such controversies every where, and few others. As, of the sensible qualities: ask what it is to be white or red, what to be sweet or sour, what to be odoriferous, or stinking, what to be cold or hit? And you are presently paid with, that it is a sensible quality, which hath the power to make a wall white or red, to make a meat agreeable or disagreeable to the taste, to make a grateful or ungrateful smell to the nose etc: Likewise they make the same questions and resolutions, of Gravity and Levity: as whether they be qualities, that is, entities distinct from their subject: and whether they be active or passive; which when they have disputed slightly, and in common, with logical arguments; they rest there, without any further searching into the physical causes or effects of them. The like you shall find of all strange effects of them. The loadstone and electrical bodies are produced for miraculous, and not understandable things; and in which, it must be acknowledged, that they work by hidden qualities, that man's wit cannot reach unto. And ascending to living bodies, they give it for a Maxim: that life is the action of the same Entity upon itself: that sense is likewise a work of an intrinsical power, in the part we call sense, upon itself. Which, our predecessors held the greatest absurdities that could be spoken in Philosophy. Even some Physicians, that take upon them to teach the curing of our bodies, do often pay us with such terms, among them, you have long discourses of a retentive, of an expulsive, of a purging, of a consolidating faculty: and so of every thing that either passeth in our body, or is applied for remedy. And the meaner sort of Physicians know no more, but that such faculties are; though indeed they that are truly Physicians, know also in what they consist; without which knowledge it is much to be feared, Physicians will do more harm then good.  
But to return to our subject: this course of doctrine in the schools, hath forced me to a great deal of pains in seeking to discover the nature of all such actions (or of the main part of them) as were famed for incomprehensible: for what hope could I have, out of the actions of the soul to convince the nature of it to be incorporeal; if I could give no other account of bodies operations, then that they were performed by qualities occult, specifical, or incomprehensible? Would not my adversary presently answer, that any operation, out of which I should press the souls being spiritual, was performed by a corporeal occult quality: and that as he must acknowledge it to be incomprehensible, so must I likewise acknowledge other qualities of bodies, to be as incomprehensible: and therefore could not with reason press him, to show how a body was able to do such an operation, as I should infer must of necessity proceed from a spirit, since that neither could I give account how the loadstone drew iron, or looked to the north; how a stone, and other heavy things were carried downwards; how sight or fantasy was made; how digestion or purging were effected; and many other such questions, which are so slightly resolved in the schools?  
Besides this reason, the very desire of knowledge in myself; and a willingness to be available unto others (at the least so far as to set them on seeking for it, without having a prejudice of impossibity in attaining it) was unto me a sufficient motive, to enlarge my discourse to the bulk it is risen unto. For what a misery is it, that the flower and best wits of Christendom, which flock to the Universities, under pretence and upon hope of gaining knowledge, should be there deluded; and after many years of toil and expense, be sent home again, with nothing acquired more than a faculty, and readiness to talk like parrots of many things; but not to understand so much as anyone; and withal with a persuasion that in truth nothing can be known? For setting knowledge aside, what can it avail a man to be able to talk of any thing? What are those wranglinges, where the discovery of truth is neither sought, nor hoped for, but merely vanity and ostentation? Doth not all tend, to make him seem and appear that which indeed he is not? Nor let any body take it ill at my hands, that I speak thus of the modern schools: for indeed it is rather themselves than I that say it. Excepting Mathematics, let all the other schools pronounce their own minds, and say ingenuously, whether they themselves believe they have so much as any one demonstration, from the beginning to the ending of the whole course of their learning. And if all, or the most part, will agree that any one position is demonstrated perfectly, and as it ought to be, and as thousands of conclusions are demonstrated in Mathematics; I am ready to undergo the blame of having calumniated them, and will as readily make them amends. But if they neither will, nor can; then their own verdict cleareth me: and it is not so much I, as they, that make this profession of the shallowness of their doctrine. And to this purpose I have often hard the lamentations of divers, as great wits as any that converse in the schools, complaining of this defect. But in so great an evidence of the effect, proofs are superfluous.  
Wherefore I will leave this subject, to declare what I have here designed, and gone about, towards the remedy of this inconvenience. Which is, that whereas in the schools, there is a loose method, or rather none; but that it is lawful, by the liberty of a commentator, to handle any question, in any place (which is the cause of the slightness of their doctrine, and can never be the way to any science or certitude) I have taken my beginnings from the commonest things that are in nature: namely, from the notions of Quantity, and its first differences: which are the most simple, and radical notions that are, and in which all the rest are to be grounded. From them I endeavour by immediate composition of them, and derivation from them, to bring down my discourse to the Elements, which are the primary, and most simple bodies in nature. From these, I proceed to compounded bodies; first, to those that are called mixed; and then, to living bodies: declaring in common the proprieties and operations that belong unto them. And by occasion as I pass along, I light here and there on those operations, which seem most admirable in nature, to show how they are performed; or at the least, how they may be performed: that though I miss in particular of the industry of nature, yet I may nevertheless hit my intent; which is, to trace out a way, how these, and such like operations may be effected by an exact disposition, and ordering (though intricate) of quantitative and corporeal parts: and to show, that they oblige us not to recurre unto hidden and unexplicable qualities. And if I have declared so many of these, as may beget a probable persuasion in my reader, that the rest, which I have not touched, may likewise be displayed, and showed to spring out of the same grounds, if curious and constant searchers into nature, will make their task to penetrate into them; I have therein obtained my desire and intent; which is only, to show from what principles, all kinds of corporeal operations do proceed; and what kind of operations all these must be, which may issue out of these principles: to the end, that I may from thence, make a step to raise my discourse to the contemplation of the soul; and show, that her operations are such, as cannot proceed from those principles; which being adequate and common to all bodies, we may rest assured, that what cannot issue from them, cannot have a body for its source.  
I will therefore end this preface, with entreating my reader to consider, that in a discourse proceeding in such order as I have declared, he must not expect to understand, and be satisfied, with what is said in any middle or later part, unless he first have read, and understood what goeth before. Wherefore, if he cannot resolve with himself, to take it along orderly as it lieth from the beginning, he shall do himself (as well as me) right, not to meddle at all with this book. But if he will employ any time upon it, to receive advantage by it, he must be content to take the pains to understand throughly every particular as it is set down. And if his memory will not serve him to carry every one along with him, yet at the least let, him be sure to remember the place where it is handled, and upon occasion, return a look back upon it, when it may stand him in steed. If he thinketh this diligence too burdensome, let him consider that the writing hereof, hath cost the Author much more pains: who as he will esteem them exceedingly well employed, if they may contribute aught to the content or advantage of any free and ingenuous mind; so if any others shall express a neglect of what he hath with so much labour hewed out of the hard rock of nature; or shall discourteously cavil at the notions he so freely imparteth unto them; all the ressentment he shall make thereof, will be to desire the first, to consider, that their slight esteem of his work, obligeth them to entertain their thoughts with some more noble and more profittable subject, and better treated, than this is: and the later sort, to justify their dislike of his doctrine, by delivering a fairer and more complete body of Philosophy, of their own. Which if hereupon they do, his being the occasion of the one's bettering themselves, and of the others bettering the world, will be the best success he can wish his book.   


APPROBATIONES DOCTORUM.  
EGo infra scriptus natione Anglus, & in sacra Theologiae Facultate Parisiensi Magister, fidem facio me librum perlegisse Anglicano idiomate scriptum; cui titulus, Two treatises, in the one of which the nature of bodies, in the other the nature of man's soul is looked into, in way of discovery of the immortality of reasonable souls, Authore nobilissimo, & undequaque eruditissimo viro Kenelmo Digbaeo Anglo. In quo nihil deprehendiaut fidei, aut pietati Catholicae, & Romanae Ecclesiae dissonum vel indignum. Quod etiam spondeo, priusquam typis exoluetur, candi●iori ac duplicato calculo testatum fore. Intereà verò ne tantum sub modio lumen vel parumper delitescat, hoc ipsum proprio firmavi chirographo. Datum Parisiis Kalendis Martijab Incarnationis anno 1644.  
H. HOLDEN.   

BY leave & order from our sacred Faculty, we under written Doctors of Devinitie of the University of Paris have read over this book, entitled, Two treatises, in the one of which the nature of bodies, in the other the nature of man's soul is looked into, in way of discovery of the immortality of reasonable souls. Written by Sir Kenelm Digby, & containing an hundred & sixteen shites, printed in folio by giles Blaizor 1644. Which, as well for its chief subject's sake, that never ought to be slightly handled, as also for its new & exotticke assertions in matters both of soul & body, we have the more diligently perused. And whether it hath hit or miss of the truth, we must needs eesteme & highly extol the authors manly design to aim at evidence. Especially in this schepticke age, wherein so few profess, or think it possible to know with certitude. Yea wherein even many of those, who to the vulgar seem Masters of learning, acknowledge all philosophies decisions only problematical; and thence labouring to make their voluminous relations of each others fancies & opinious pass for science, have quite banished her their schools. But here we find a large & lofty soul, who not satisfied with unexamined words & ambiguous terms, longing to know dives deeply into the bowels of all corporeal & compounded things: and then divinely speculats the nature of immaterial & subsistent forms. Nor this by wrangling in airy names with chimerical imaginations & feigned suppositions of unknown qualities, but strongly striving to disclosehereall & connatural truth of each thing in itself, and of one constant & continued third, weaves his whole work into one web. Where many of the most abstruse & enigmaticke questions of nature's secrets, (hitherto unresolued, & for the most part weakly represented in empty language & verbal shadows) are made no less plain & evident in their inward beings & effects, then pleasant & grateful in their wellclothed outside & expression. In which, though to the blind & common crowd (to whom all that's unusual is a paradox) there may perhaps appear what they'll dare call extravagant, and to the midlecyzed gymnastickes what they'll conceive ill grounded, though ingenious quesses, yet surely will the more solid reflections of all knowing men beget a liking of its acquaintance. Howsoever this we can & do affirm & testify (although the author's prodigious parts & public credit makes voide our approbation) that nothing contained in either of those two treatises, discussing only the ordinary course of nature, doth any way tend to the disadvantage of the faith or piety of our Catholic Roman church, whereof this Author professeth himself a dutiful & obedient child. And therefore we sign & subscribe our names here unto. Paris this 10. of November 1644.  


H. HOLDEN.  
E. TYRREL.     

IDEM LATINE.  
VEniâ ac iussu Sacrae nostrae Facultatis, Nos infrascripti S. Theologiae Doctores Academiae Parisiensis, perlegimus librum hunc, cui titulus, Duo tractatus, in quorum uno natura corporum, altero natura humanae animae inspicitur, ad investigandam animarum rationalium immortalitatem. Authore Kenelmo Digbaeo Equite aurato, centum & sexdecim schedas continentem, typis Aegidij Blaizot in folio excusum Anno 1644. Quem, tùm ob eius praecipuum subiectum, quod nunquam leviter tractari convenit, tum maximè ob novas quasdam & inusitatas assertiones, tam in animae quam corporum materiâ, tanto diligentiori studio pervoluimus. In quo sive ipsas veritatis apices adeptus sit, sive non, audaces certè authoris animos, in ipsam evidentiam attentando non possumus non magnoperè commendare: in hoc sceptico praesertim aevo, in quo tam pauci profitentur, aut possibile reputant fieri posse ut quidquam certò cognoscatur: imo veròin quo plurimi eorum qui vulgi opinione scientiarum magistri habentur, quotquot sunt philosophiae positiones, non nisi totidem problemata agnoscunt: quique proinde portentosis voluminibus sua aliorumque placita loco verae scientiae nobis obtrudere volentes, eam prorsus scholis suis exterminarunt. At hic generosiorem animum invenimus, qui nudis hisce ac inexplicatis voculis haud acquiescens, sed veritatis ardore succensus, eam altius in ipsis rerum corporearum visceribus perscrutatur: ac tum demum immaterialium & subsistentium formarum naturam perspicacissimâ mentis acie speculatur. Nec ad hoc contentiosis utitur verborum rixis, aut chimericas, incognitasque qualitates in subsidium convocat, sed genuinam cuiusque ●ei, prout in se est, exhibens veritatem, unoque, & eo continuo, scientiae filo totum opus contexit. In quo plurima ex abstrusioribus naturae secretis (quae hactenus aut omninò non innotuerunt, aut ad summum umbratili verborum fuco sunt obuoluta) non minus clara & evidentia quoad interiores eorum naturas & effectus, quam grata & iucunda quoad exteriorem ornatum exhibentur. Inter quae nonnihil fortasse occurret, quod plebeo hominum generi (cui omne inusitatum paradoxi loco habetur) longè à veritatis scopo alienum videri poterit; aut quod moderatioribus gymnasiastis, invalidis quidem innixum fundamentis, attamen non nisi ingeniosis adinuentum coniecturis: Erit nihilominus quod post maturam discussionem, omnium verè doctorum animos ad sui amorem ac desiderium alliceat. Quicquid sit, hoc saltem nos possumus, ac de facto testamur & notum facimus (utut Authoris conspicua fame ac dignitas testimonium nostrum inutile reddat) nihil in utrolibet horum tractatuum contentum, in quibus ordinarius solùm naturae processus consideratur, in praeiudicium fideitendere, aut pietatis Catholicae Romanae Ecclesiae, cuius author hic se filium obedientissimum profitetur. In cuius proinde rei testimonium hic nostra subscripsimus nomina, & subsignavimus. Actum Parisiis 10. Novembris anno 1644.  


H. HOLDEN.  
E. TYRREL.     

ERudita est haec lucubratio, eruditis edita cogitationibus, nihil habet orthodoxis repugnans Maximis, magè maximum magnae Britanniae decus loquitur authorem; vere virum, & primis Christiani orbis componendum Heroibus, ea doctrinae & fortitudinis laude, eo Castrensis & literarij pulueris usu, iis pro patria & Religione negotiationibus, ea potenti suada, tam supereminenti politia, tot terra, marique rebus gestis inclytum, ut eius commentario praelatum Nomen, non modo lucis ipsi usuram, sed & quovis terrarum inoffenso pede commeandi, & iura civium vindi●●ndi promereatur. Sic censuit Parisiis in Collegio Plessaeo 11. Novembris Anno Domini 1644.  
JACOBUS DVLAEVS in sacra Facultate Paris. Doctor Theologus.   

PRAE●LARVM istud Opus, & aureum Viri nobilissimi, illustrissimi Equitis aurati, Domini mei D. Kenelmi Digbaei, non est cur adgrediar approbare vel audeam. Satis illud probatum reddiderint Sapientissimi MM. NN. quibus, me absente, longéque alibi Gentium constituto, hanc provinciam demandavit sacra nostra Facultas Parisiensis. Iwat tamen admirari, ac venerari singularem at que praecellentem Viri Genium, parique virtute & foelicitate Ingenium. Peragraverat olim Oceanum, mareque mediterraneum navalibus pugnis, victorijs, triumphis paruâ, sed bene instructâ classiculâ, tot & tam miranda patraverat, quot, & quanta deinceps alij, ne regijs quidem classibus, sunt assecuti. Martigenam dixisses aut Neptunigenam. Nunc Apollini quóque sacrum se, & charum ostendit; Mineruae, Musarúmque Alumnum. Principijs quippe subnixus purè naturalibus, paucis quidem, sed validis, bene provisis, diligenter selectis, ferrea, ut ita dicam, Naturae claustra perrumpit, atque refringit. Ast quodnam mihi verbum exciderat▪ apetit leniter potius, & recludi●. Sinus, penetralia, recessus, viscera, mentis acumine pererrat: divitiarum illinc thesauros eruit: utendos, fruendos nobis elargitur. Principia illius, & elementa, ipsorúmque inter sese texturam & coagmentationem explicat; indeque exorientia mixta, perfecta, imperfecta, viventia, animata, moventia, rationis expertia, rationalia, horúmque omnium virtutes, operationes, effectûs: tum, quibus instrumentis ista moliatur Natura Architectrix. Hisce attentâ ment perpensis, & quousque pertingere valeat formarum, quae plane sunt materiales, vis & potestas; tum demùm clara luce visendum ostendit, Formam nostram, non animam duntaxat esse, quâ sumus, vegetamur, movemur, sentimus, sed & animum, mentemque, quâ sapimus, & intelligimus: Hac nos praeterita reminiscendo recolere; praesentia supra ipsa reflectendo intueri▪ futura, non ex aëris humorúmve immutatione, sed ratiocinando, & verâ providentiâ, in alteram quoque aetatem, & saecula prospicere, & praecavere: Quin & eumdem animum, cum caetera permeaverit intelligibilia, revocatâ in se suâ atque subductâ ratiocinatione▪ eam supra semetipsam convertere, ac retorquere: ac verè suam omnem energiam tunc exerere & studiosissimè exercere; quî sese eumdem testetur manifestè & intelligentem esse, & intelligibile. Assequi istud non posse Agentia, omnimodis à materia dependentia. Hinc ipsum evinci spiritualem, & immortalém esse, & sine corpore potentem subsistere▪ Abstractae proptereà statum, vim, virtutem, functiones, operationes persequitur accuratè, & assequitur; quantum firi potest in sublustribus & opacis terrenae commorationis nostrae umbraculis. At ô bone Deus! Dum campos & lata mentis praetoria perlustrat, abstrusioraque voluntatis liberrimae receptacula; abditosque grandis memoriae recessûs, & quae reponuntur illic miris tamquam cellis & caveis; quam inde miranda nobis egerit, quam stupenda producit? Res illîc esse innumerabiles, quarum sonos verborum & nominum, tenuesue, languidas, emortuas per sensum hauserimus umbras & imagines; vividas autem & veraces intus nos habere earum notiones atque rationes; illius etiam quo quid est, quidquid est, siue, ut more nostro loquar, essentiarum ab omni materia depuratarum, definitiones, divisiones, quaeque ex illis sequuntur demonstrationes. Nostrum nos timorem sine timore recolere, nostramque tristes laetitiam; vitam nos beatam praelibare, & purum ab omni foece gaudium, quod in uno hominum nemine sumus experti. Ad imitationem summi, post Apostolorum tempora, ingenio & doctrinâ Theologi, exclamare libet: Quale tibi fabricatus es cubile in ment mea Domine? Quale tibi sanctuarium aedificasti? Quid ego nunc styli nitorem, & ubertatem depraedicem? Exemplorum similitudinum, experimentorum copiam & varietatem? Scientiarum omnium unica in dissertatione breviarium & anacephaloeosim? Hisce, Vir natalitijs, ingenio, doctrinâ summus, riwlis, floribus, luminibus ita irrigavit, convestivit, distinxit, laeta reddidit horrida, ut videbantur arua & aspera contemplationis Physicae, ut certare possint cum laetissimis, & amoenissimis hortis aliorum, & suburbanis. Gratulor magnae Britanniae, quondam foecundae maximorum ingeniorum parenti, & altrici; quae ne hoc quidem aevo senectute caduco, aut phroenisi laborante, sese indicat sterilem & effo●tum. Gratulor linguae Anglicanae, locupletissimae iam antea, & suavissimae; cuius t●men pomoeria longè latéque protulit Author hic splendidissimus. Gratulor Philologis & Philosophis Anglis, quibus viam praeivit, quâ se quoque possint vulgo eximere, atque in libertatem aslerere; & horridiuscula quaeque & inculta nitidissimè edisserere. Gratulor denique generosissimo beatae prolis parenti, tam altam animi pacem, tranquillitatem, magnitudinem; ut inter novercantis fortunae procellas, bellorum tumultûs, aulae strepitûs, ista tamen procudere valuerit.  
H. MAILLARD.    

THE FIRST TREATISE DECLARING THE NATURE AND OPERATIONS OF BODIES.  

THE FIRST CHAPTER A Preamble to the whole discourse; concerning notions in general.  
IN delivering any science; 
1 Quantity is the first, and most obvious affection of a body.  the clearest and smoothest method, and most agreeable to nature; is to begin with the consideration of those things, that are most common and obvious; and by the dissection of them to descend by orderly degrees and steps (as they lie in the way) unto the examination of the most particular and remote ones. Now, in our present intended survey of a body, the first thing which occurreth to our sense in the perusal of it, is its Quantity, bulk, or magnitude▪ and this seemeth by all mankind, to be conceived so inseparable from a body as when a man would distinguish a corporeal substance from a spiritual one (which is accounted indivisible) he naturally pitcheth upon an apprehension of its having bulk, and beind solid, tangible, and apt to make impression upon our outward senses; according to that expression of Lucretius, who studying nature in a familiar and rational manner telleth us; 
Tangere enim & tangi, nisi corpus nulla potest res.  And therefore in our inquiry of bodies, we will observe that plain method which nature teacheth us, and will begin with examining what Quantity is, as being their first and primary affection▪ and that which maketh the things we treat of, be what we intent to signify by the name of body.  

2 Words do not express things as they are in themselves, but only as they are painted in the minds of men.  But because there is a great variety of apprehensions framed by learned men, of the nature of Quantity (though indeed nothing can be more plain and simple than it is in itself) I conceive it will not be amiss, before we enter into the explication of it, to consider how the mystery of discoursing and expressing our thoughts to one an other by words (a prerogative belonging only to man) is ordered and governed among us: that so, we may avoid those rocks, which many, and for the most part, such as think they spin the finest thriddes, do suffer shipwreck against in their subtlest discourses. The most dangerous of all which, assuredly is when they confound the true and real natures of things, with the conceptions they frame of them in their own minds. By which fundamental miscarriage of their reasoning, they fall into great errors and absurdities: and whatsoever they build upon so ruinous a foundation, proveth but useless cobwebs or prodigious Chimeras. It is true, words serve to express things: but if you observe the matter well; you will perceive they do so, only according to the pictures we make of them in our own thoughts, and not according as the things are in their proper natures. Which is very reasonable it should be so; since the soul, that giveth the names, hath nothing of the things in her but these notions, and knoweth not the things otherwise then by these notions: and therefore can not give other names but such as must signify the things by mediation of these notions. In the things, all that belongeth unto them is comprised under one entire Entity: but in us, there are framed as many several distinct formal conceptions, as that one thing showeth itself unto us with different faces. Every one of which conceptions seemeth to have for its object a distinct thing, because the conception itself is as much severed and distinguished from another conception or image, arising out of the very same thing that begot this, as it can be from any image painted in the understanding by an absolutely other thing.  

3 The first error that may arise from hence; which is a multiplying of things, where ●o such multiplication is really found.  It will not be amiss to illustrate this matter by some familiar example. Imagine I have an apple in my hand: the same fruit worketh different effects upon my several senses: my eye telleth me it is green or red: my nose that it hath a mellow sent: my taste that it is sweet, and my hand that it is cold and weighty. My senses thus affected, send messengers to my fantasy with news of the discoveries they have made: and there, all of them make several and distinct pictures of what entereth by their doors. So that my Reason (which discourseth upon what it findeth in my fantasy) can consider greenness by itself, or mellownesse, or sweetness, or coldness, or any other quality whatsoever, singly and alone by itself, without relation to any other that is painted in me by the same apple: in which, none of these have any distinction at all, but are one and the same substance of the apple, that maketh various and different impressions upon me, according to the various dispositions of my several senses: as hereafter we shall explicate at large. But in my mind, every one of these notions is a distinct picture by itself, and is as much severed from any of the rest arising from the same apple, as it would be from any impression or image made in me, by a stone or any other substance whatsoever, that being entire in itself and circumscribed within its own circle, is absolutely sequestered from any communication with the other: so that, what is but one entire thing in itself, seemeth to be many distinct things in my understanding. Whereby, if I be not very cautious, and in a manner wrestle with the bent and inclination of my understanding (which is apt to refer the distinct and complete stamp it findeth within itself, unto a distinct and complete original character in the thing) I shall be in danger before I am aware, to give actual Being's to the quantity, figure, colour, smell, taste, and other accidents of the apple, each of them distinct one from an other, as also from the substance which they cloth; because I find the notions of them really distinguished (as if they were different Entities) in my mind. And from thence I may infer, there is no contradiction in nature to have the accidents really severed from one an other, and to have them actually subsist without their substance: and such other mistaken subtleties; which arise out of our unwary conceiting that things are in their own natures, after the same fashion as we consider them in our understanding.  
And this course of the minds disguising and changing the impressions it receiveth from outward objects, 
4 A second error▪ the conceiving of many distinct things as really one thing.  into appearances quite differing from what the things are in their own real natures; may be observed not only in multiplying Entities, where in truth there is but one: But also in a contrary manner, by comprising several distinct things, under one single notion; which if afterwards it be reflected back upon the things themselves, is the occasion of exceeding great errors, and entangleth one in unsuperable difficulties. As for example: looking upon several cubes or deyes, whereof one is of gold, an other of lead, a third of ivory, a fourth of wood, a fifth of glass and what other matter you please; all these several things agree together in my understanding, and are there comprehended under one single notion of a cube; which (like a painter that were to design them only in black and white) maketh one figure that representeth them all. Now if removing my consideration from this impression which the several cubes make in my understanding, unto the cubes themselves, I shall unwarily suffer myself to pin this one notion upon every one of them, and accordingly conceive it to be really in them; it will of necessity fall out by this misapplying of my intellectual notion to the real things, that I must allow Existence to other entities, which never had nor can have any in nature.  
From this conception, Plato's Ideas had their birth; for he finding in his understanding, one universal notion that agreed exactly to every Individual of the same species of substance, which imprinted that notion in him; and conceiving that the picture of any thing must have an exact correspondence with the thing it representeth; and not considering that this was but an imperfect picture of the individual that made it: he did thence conceive, there was actually in every individual substance one universal nature running through all of that species, which made them be what they were. And then considering that corporeity, quantity, and other accidents of matter, could not agree with this universal subsistent nature, he denied all those of it: and so, abstracting from all materiality in his Ideas, and giving them a real and actual subsistence in nature, he made them like Angels, whose essences and formal reasons were to be the Essence and to give Existence unto corporeal individuals: and so, each idea was embodied in every individual of its species. Unto which opinion (and upon the same grounds) Auerroes did lean, in the particular of men's souls. Likewise, Scotus finding in his understanding an universal notion springing from the impression that individuals make in it, will, have a like universal in the thing itself, so determining universals (to use his own language and terms) to be aparterei; and expressing the distinction they have from the rest of the thing, by the terms of actu formaliter sed non realiter: and thereby maketh every individual comprise an universal subsistent nature in it. Which inconvenience other modern Philosophers seeking to avoid, will not allow these universals a real and actual subsistence; but will lend them only a fictitious Being, so making them as they call them Entia rationis. But herein again they suffer themselves to be carried down the stream before they are aware by the understanding (which is apt to pin upon the objects, the notions it findeth within itself resulting from them) and do consider an unity in the things which indeed is only in the understanding.  

5 Great care to be taken to avoid the errors, which may arise from our manner of understanding things.  Therefore one of our greatest cares in the guidance of our discourse, and a continual and sedulous caution therein, aught to be used in this particular, where every error is a fundamental one, and leadeth into inextricable labyrinths, and where that which is all our level to keep us upright and even (our understanding) is so apt, by reason of its own nature, and manner of operation to make us slide into mistaking and error. And to sum up in short what this discourse aimeth at, we must narrowly take heed, least reflecting upon the notions we have in our mind, we afterwards pin those eyrie superstructures upon the material things themselves, that begot them; or frame a new conception of the nature of any thing by the negotiation of our understanding upon those impressions which itself maketh in us: whereas, we should acquiesce and be content with that natural and plain notion, which springeth immediately and primarily from the thing itself: which when we do not, the more we seem to excel in subtlety, the further we go from reality and truth; like an arrow, which being wrong leveled at hand, falleth widest when shot in the strongest bow.  
Now to come to an other point that maketh to our present purpose. 
6 Two sorts of words to express our notions; the one common to all men, the other proper to scholars.  We may observe there are two sorts of language to express our notions by. The one belongeth in general to all mankind, and the simplest person, that can but apprehend and speak sense, is as much judge of it, as the greatest Doctor in the schools: and in this, the words express the things properly and plainly, according to the natural conceptions that all people agree in making of them. The other sort of language, is circled in with narrower bounds; and is understood only by those that in a particular and express manner have been trained up unto it: and many of the words which are proper to it, have been by the authors of it, translated and wrested from the general conceptions of the same words, by some metaphor, or similitude, or allusion, to serve their private turns. Without the first manner of expressing our notions, mankind could not live in society together, and converse with one an other: whereas, the other hath no further extent, then among such persons as have agreed together to explicate and design among themselves particular notions peculiar to their arts and affairs.  
Of the first kind, are those ten general heads, which Aristotle calleth Predicaments: under which he (who was the most judicious orderer of notions, and director of men's conceptions that ever lived) hath comprised whatsoever hath or can have a being in nature. For when any object occurreth to our thoughts, we either consider the essential and fundamental Being of it; or we refer it to some species of Quantity; or we discover some qualities in it; or we perceive that it doth, or that it suffereth some thing; or we conceive it in some determinate place, or time, and the like. Of all which, every man living that enjoyeth but the use of reason, findeth naturally within himself at the very first naming of them, a plain, complete, and satisfying notion; which is the same without any the least variation, in all mankind; unless it be in such, as have industriously and by force, and with much labour, perplexed and depraved those primary and sincere impressions, which nature had freely made in them.  
Of the second sort, are the particular words of art by which learned men use to express what they mean in sciences; and the names of instruments, and of such things as belong to trades, and the like: as a sine, a tangent, an epicycle, a deferent, an axe, a trowel, and such others; the intelligence of which, belongeth not to the generality of mankind; but only to Geometricians, Astronomers, Carpenters, Masons, and such persons as converse familiarly and frequently with those things. To learn the true signification of such words, we must consult with those that have the knowledge and practice of them: as in like manner, to understand the other kind of plain language, we must observe how the words that compose it are apprehended, used, and applied by mankind in general: and not receive into this examination the wrested or Metaphorical senses of any learned men, who seek oftentimes (beyond any ground in nature) to frame a general notion that may comprehend all the particular ones, which in any sense, proper or improper, may arise out of the use of one word.  

7 Great errors arise by wresting words from their common meaning to express a more particular or studied notion.  And this is the cause of great errors in discourse; so great and important, as I cannot too much inculcate the caution requisite to the avoiding of this rock. Which that it may be the better apprehended, I will instance in one example of a most plain and easy conception wherein all mankind naturally agreeth, how the wresting it from its proper, genuine, and original signification, leadeth one into strange absurdities; and yet they pass for subtle speculations. The notion of being in a place, is naturally the same in all men living: ask any simple artisan; Where such a man, such a house, such a tree, or such a thing is; and he will answer you in the very same manner as the learnedest Philosopher would do: he will tell you, the man you ask for, is in such a church, sitting in such a piew, and in such a corner of it; that the house you inquire after, is in such a street, and next to such two buildings on each side of it; that the tree you would find out, is in such a forest, upon such a hill, near such a fountain, and by such a bush; that the wine you would drink of, is in such a cellar, in such a part of it, and in such a cask. In conclusion, no man living that speaketh naturally and freely out of the notion he findeth clearly in his understanding, will give you other answer to the question of where a thing is, than such a one as plainly expresseth his conceit of being in place, to be no other, than a bodies being environed and enclosed by some one, or several others that are immediate unto it; as the place, of a liquor, is the vessel that containeth it; and the place of the vessel, is such a part of the chamber, or house that it resteth upon, together with the ambient air; which hath a share in making up the places of most things. And this being the answer, that every man whatsoever will readily give to this question; and every asker being fully satisfied with it; we may safely conclude, that all their notions and conceptions of being in a place, are the same; and consequently, that it is the natural and true one.  
But then some others, considering that such conditions as these will not agree unto other things, which they likewise conceit to be in a place (for they receive it as an Axiom from their sense, that whatsoever is, must be somewhere, and whatsoever is no where, is not at all) they fall to casting about how they may frame some common notion to comprehend all the several kinds of being in place, which they imagine in the things they discourse of. If there were nothing but bodies to be ranked by them in the Predicament of place; then that description I have already set down, would be allowed by them, as sufficient. But since that spirits and spiritual things, (as Angels, rational souls, verities, sciencies, arts, and the like) have a being in nature; and yet will not be comprised in such a kind of place as a body is contained in; they rack their thoughts to speculate out some common notion of being in place, which may be common to these, as well as to bodies; like a common accident agreeing to divers subjects. And so in the end, they pitch upon an Entity, which they call an Vbi: and they conceit the nature and formal reason of that to be, the ranking of any thing in a place, when that Entity is thereunto affixed. And then they have no further difficulty, in settling an Angel or any pure spirit, or immaterial essence, in a place as properly, and as completely, as if it were a corporeal substance. It is but assigning an Vbi to such a spirit, and he is presently riveted to what place you please: and by multiplying the Vbies, any individual body unto which they are assigned, is at the same instant in as many distant places, as they allot it different Vbies: and if they assign the same Vbi to several bodies, so many several ones as they assign it unto, will be in one and the same place: and not only many bodies in one place, but even a whole body in an indivisible, by a kind of Vbi that hath a power to resume all the extended parts, and enclose them in a point of place. All which prodigious conceits and impossibilities in nature, do spring out of their mistake in framing Metaphysical and abstracted conceptions, instead of contenting themselves with those plain, easy, and primary notions, which nature stampeth a like in all men of common sense, and understanding. As who desireth to be further instructed in this particular, may perceive, if he take the pains to look over what M. White hath discoursed of Place in the first of his Dialogues De Mundo. Unto which book, I shall from time to time (according as I shall have occasion) refer my Reader in those subjects the Author taketh upon him to prove; being confident that his Metaphysical demonstrations there, are as firm, as any Mathematical ones (for Metaphysical demonstrations have in themselves as much firmness, certainty and evidency as they) and so will appear as evident, as they, unto whosoever shall understand them throughly, and shall frame right conceptions of them: which (how plain soever they seem to be) is not the work of every pretender to learning.   

THE SECOND CHAPTER. Of Quantity.  

1 We must know the vulgar and common notion of Quantity that we may understand the nature of it.  AMONG those primary affections which occur in the perusal of a body, Quantity (as I have observed in the precedent chapter) is one and in a manner the first and the root of all the rest. Therefore (according to the caution we have been so prolix in giving, because it is of so main importance) if we aim at right understanding the true nature of it, we must examine, what apprehension all kinds of people (that is mankind in general) maketh of it. By which proceeding, we do not make the ignorant multitude judge of that learning which groweth out of the consideration of Quantity: but only of the natural notion which serveth learned men for a basis and foundation to build scientifical superstructures upon. For although, sciencies be the works and structures of the understanding governed and leveled by the wary and strict rules of most ingenious artificers: yet the ground upon which they are raised, are such plain notions of things, as naturally and without any art do present themselves to every man's apprehension: without which for matter to work upon, those artificial reflections would leave the understanding as unsatisfied; as a cook would the appetite, by a dish upon which he should have exercised all his art in dressing it, but whose first substance were not meat of solid nutriment. It is the course market that must deliver him plain materials to employ his cunning upon: and in like manner, it is the indisciplined multitude that must furnish learned men with natural apprehensions, and notions to exercise their wits about: which when they have, they may use and order ad reflect upon them as they please: but they must first receive them in that plain and naked form, as mankind in general pictureth them out in their imaginations.  
And therefore the first work of scholars, is to learn of the people 
Quem penes, arbitrium est & ius & norma loquendi,  what is the true meaning and signification of these primary names, and what notions they beget in the generality of mankind of the things they design. Of the common people then, we must inquire what Quantity is: and we shall soon be informed, if we but consider what answer any sensible man will make upon the sudden to a question whereof that is the subject: for, such unstudied replies express sincerely the plain and natural conceptions, which they that make them, have of the things they speak of. And this of Quantity, is the plainest and the first, that nature printeth in us, of all the things we see, feel, and converse with all; and that must serve for a ground unto all our other inquiries and reflections: for which cause, we must be sure not to receive it wrested or diguised from its own nature.  
If then any one be asked; 
2 Extension or divisibility is the common notion of Quantity.  what Quantity there is in such a thing, or how great it is; he will presently in his understanding compare it with some other thing, (equally known by both parties) that may serve for a measure unto it; and then answer, that it is as big as it, or twice as big, or not half so big, or the like: in fine, that it is bigger or lesser than an other thing, or equal to it.  
It is of main importance to have this point throughly and clearly understood; therefore it will not be amiss to turn it and view it a little more particularly. If you ask what Quantity there is, of such a parcel of cloth, how much wood in such a piece of timber, how much gold in such an ingott, how much wine in such a vessel, how much time was taken up in such an action; he that is to give you an account of them, measureth them by else, by feet, by inches, by pounds, by ounces, by gallons, by pints, by days, by hours, and the like; and then telleth you, how many of those parts, are in the whole that you inquire of. Which answer, every man living will at the instant, without study, make to this question; and with it, every man that shall ask, will be fully appayed and satisfied: so that it is most evident, it fully expresseth the notions of them both, and of all mankind, in this particular.  
Wherefore, when we consider that Quantity is nothing else, but the extension of a thing; and that this extension, is expressed by a determinate number of lesser extensions of the same nature; (which lesser ones, are sooner and more easily apprehended then greater; because we are first acquainted and conversant with such; and our understanding graspeth, weigheth and discerneth such more steadily; and maketh an exacter judgement of them) and that such lesser ones are in the greater which they measure, as parts in a whole; and that the whole by comprehending those parts, is a mere capacity to be divided into them: we conclude, that Quantity or bigness, is nothing else but divisibility; and that a thing is big, by having a capacity to be divided, or (which is the same) to have parts made of it.  
This is yet more evident (if more may be) in Discrete Quantity (that is, in number) then in continued Quantity, or extension. For if we consider any number whatsoever, we shall find the essence of it, consisteth in a capacity of being resolved and divided into so many unities, as are contained in it; which are the parts of it. And this species of Quantity being simpler, than the other, serveth for a rule to determine it by▪ as we may observe in the familiar answers to questions of continued Quantity, which express by number, the content of it: as when one delivereth the Quantity of a piece of ground, by such a number of furlongs, acars, perches, or the like.  

3 Parts of Quantity are not actually in their whole.  But we must take heed of conceiving, that those parts, which we consider to discern the nature of Quantity, are actually and really in the whole of any continued one that containeth them. else, feet, inches, are no more real Entities in the whole that is measured by them, and that maketh impressions of such notions in our understanding; then in our former example, colour, figure mellownesse, taste, and the like are several substances in the apple that affecteth our several senses with such various impressions. It is but one whole that may indeed be cut into so many several parts: but those parts are not really there, till by division they are parceled out: and then, the whole (out of which they are made) ceaseth to be any longer; and the parts succeed in lieu of it; and are, every one of them, a new whole.  
This truth, is evident out of the very definition we have gathered of Quantity. For since it is Divisibility (that is, a bare capacity to division) it followeth that it is not yet divided: and consequently that those parts are not yet in it, which may be made of it; for division, is the making two, or more things, of one.  

4 If parts were actually in their whole, Quamtity would be composed of indivisibles.  But because this is a very great controversy in schools; and so important to be determined and settled, as without doing so, we shall be liable to main errors in searching the nature and operations of bodies; and that the whole progress of our discourse, will be uncertain and wavering, if this principle and foundation be not firmly laid: we must apply ourselves, to bring some more particular and immediate proof of the verity of this assertion. Which we will do, by showing the inconvenience, impossibility, and contradiction, that the admittance of the other leadeth unto. For if we allow actual parts to be distinguished in Quantity, it will follow that it is composed of points or indivisibles, which we shall prove to be impossible.  
The first will appear thus: if Quantity were divided into all the parts into which it is divisible, it would be divided into indivisibles (for nothing divisible, and not divided, would remain in it) but it is distinguished into the same parts, into which it would be divided, if it were divided into all the parts into which it is divisible; therefore it is distinguished into indivisibles. The mayor proposition is evident to any man that hath eyes of understanding. The minor, is the confession or rather the position of the adversary, when he saith that all its parts are actually distinguished. The consequence cannot be calumniated, since that indivisibles, whether they be separated or joined, are still but indivisibles; though that which is composed of them be divisible. It must then be granted that all the parts which are in Quantity, are indivisibles; which parts being actually in it, and the whole being composed of these parts only, it followeth, that Quantity is composed and made of indivisibles.  
If any should cavil at the supposition, and say we stretch it further than they intent it, by taking all the parts to be distinguished; whereas they mean only that there are parts actually in Quantity, abstracting from all▪ by reason that all, in this matter would infer an infinity, which to be actually in any created thing, they will allow to be impossible. Our answer will be, to represent unto them how this is barely said, without any ground or colour of reason, merely to evade the inconvenience, that the argument driveth them unto. For if any parts be actually distinguished, why should not all be so? What prerogative have some that the others have not? And how came they by it? If they have their actual distinction out of their nature of being parts, than all must enjoy it a like, and all be equally distinguished, as the supposition goeth: and they must all be indivisibles as we have proved. Besides to prevent the cavil upon the word all, we may change the expression of the Proposition into a negative: for if they admit (as they do) that there is no part in Quantity, but is distinguished as far as it may be distinguished, than the same conclusion followeth with no less evidence; and all will prove indivisibles, as before.  
But it is impossible that indivisibles should make Quantity; 
5 Quantity cannot be composed of indivisibles.  for if they should, it must be done either by a finite and determinate number, or by an infinite multitude of them. If you say by a finite; let us take (for example) three indivisibles, and by adding them together, let us suppose a line to be composed; whose extent being only longitude, it is the first and simpliest species of Quantity, and therefore whatsoever is divisible into parts, must be at the least a line. This line thus made, cannot be conceived to be divided into more parts then into three; since doing so you reduce it, into the indivisibles that composed it. But Euclid hath demonstratively proved beyond all cavil, (in the tenth proposition of his sixth book of Elements) that any line whatsoever may be divided into whatsoever number of parts; so that if this be a line, it must be divisible into a hundred or a thousand, or a million of parts: which being impossible in a line, that being divided into three parts only, every one of those three is incapable of further division; it is evident, that neither a line, nor any Quantity whatsoever, is composed or made of a determinate number of indivisibles.  
And since that this capacity of being divisible into infinite parts, is a property belonging to all extension (for Euclides demonstration is universal) we must needs confess that it is the nature of indivisibles, when they are joined together, to be drowned in one another, for otherwise there would result a kind of extension out of them, which would not have that property; contrary to what Euclid hath demonstrated. And from hence it followeth that Quantity cannot be composed of an infinite multitude of such indivisibles; for if this be the nature of indivisibles, though you put never so great a number of them together, they will still drown themselves all in one indivisible point. For what difference can their being infinite, bring to them, of such force as to destroy their essence and property? If you but consider how the essential composition of any multitude whatsoever, is made by the continual addition of unities, till that number arise; it is evident in our case that the infinity of indivisibles must also arise, out of the continued addition of still one indivisible to the indivisibles presupposed: then let us apprehend a finite number of indivisibles, which (according as we have proved) do make no extension, but are all of them drowned in the first; and observing how the progress unto an infinite multitude, goeth on by the steps of one and one, added still to this presupposed number; we shall see, that every indivisible added and consequently the whole infinity, will be drowned in the first number, as that was in the first indivisible.  
Which will be yet plainer, if we consider that the nature of extension requireth that one part be not in the same place, where the other is: then if this extension be composed of indivisibles, let us take two points of place in which this extension is, and inquire whether the indivisibles that are in each one of these points, be finite or infinite. If it be answered that they are finite, than the finite indivisibles in those two points make an extension; which we have proved impossible. But if they be said to be infinite; then infinite indivisibles are drowned in one point, and consequently have not the force to make extension. Thus than it remaineth firmly established, That Quantity is not composed of indivisibles (neither finite, nor infinite ones) and consequently, that parts are not actually in it.  

6 An objection to prove that parts are actually in Quantity; with a declaration of the mistake from whence it proceedeth.  Yet before we leave this point, although we have already been somewhat long about it, I conceive it will not be tedious, if we be yet a little longer, and bend our discourse to remove a difficulty that even sense itself seemeth to object unto us. For doth not our eye evidently inform us, there are fingers, hands, arms, legs, feet, toes and variety of other parts, in a man's body? These are actually in him, and seem to be distinct things in him, so evidently, that we cannot be persuaded, but that we see, and feel, the distinction between them: for every one of them, hath a particular power of actual working and doing what belongeth unto its nature to do: each finger is really there; the hand is different from the foot; the leg from the arm; and so of the rest. Are not these parts then actually and really in a man's body? And is not each of them as really distinguished from any other?  
This appeareth at the first sight to be an insuperable objection, because of the confirmation and evidence that sense seemeth to give it. But looking nearly into the matter, we shall find that the difficulty ariseth not from what sense informeth us of; but from our wrong applying the conditions of our notions unto the things that make impressions upon our sense. Sense judgeth not which is a finger, which is a hand, or which is a foot. The notions agreeing to these words, as well as the words themselves, are productions of the understanding: which considering several impressions made upon the sense by the same thing as it hath a virtue, and power to several operations, frameth several notions of it: as in our former example, it doth of colour, figure, taste and the like, in an apple. For as these are not different bodies or substances, distinguished one from an other; but are the same one entire thing, working severally upon the senses, and that accordingly, maketh these different pictures in the mind; which are there as much distinguished, as if they were pictures of different substances. So, the parts which are considered in Quantity, are not divers things: but are only a virtue or power to be divers things: which virtue, making several impressions upon the senses, occasioneth several notions in the understanding: and the understanding is so much the more prone to conceive those parts as distinct things, by how much Quantity is nearer to be distinct things, than the qualities of the apple are. For Quantity, is a possibility to be made distinct things by division: whereas the others, are but a virtue to do distinct things. And yet (as we have touched above) nothing can be more manifest, then that if Quantity be divisibility (which is a possibility, that many things may be made of it) these parts are not yet divers things. So that, if (for example) a rod be laid before us, and half of it be hid from our sight, and the other half appear; it is not one part or thing that showeth itself, and an other part or thing that doth not show itself: but it is the same rod or thing, which showeth itself according to the possibility of being one new thing, but doth not show itself according to the possibility of being the other of the two things, it may be made by division. Which example, if it be well considered will make it much more easily sink into us, that a hand, or eye, or foot, is not a distinct thing by itself; but that it is the man, according as he hath a certain virtue or power in him to distinct operations. For if you sever any of these parts from the whole body; the hand can no more hold; nor the eye see; nor the foot walk; which are the powers that essentially constitute them to be what they are: and therefore they are no longer a hand, an eye, or a foot.  
Now then to come to the objection; 
7 The solution of the former objection: and that sense cannot discern whether one part be distinguished from another, or no.  let us examine how far, sense may be allowed to be judge in this difficulty: and we shall find, that sense cannot determine any one part in a body: for if it could, it would precisely tell, where that part beginneth or endeth: but it being agreed upon, that it beginneth and endeth in indivisibles; it is certain, that sense cannot determine of them. If then sense cannot determine any one part, how shall it see that it is distinguished from all other parts? Again; considering that all that whereof sense is capable, is divisible, it still telleth us, that in all it seeth, there are more parts than one: and therefore it can not discern, nor inform us of any that is one alone: nor knoweth what it is to be one; for it never could discern it: but what is many, is many ones and can not be known, by that, which knoweth not, what it is to be one: and consequently sense can not tell us, that there are many. Wherefore it is evident, that we may not rely upon sense for this question. And as for reason, she hath already given her verdict.  
So that nothing remaineth but to show, why we talk as we do, in ordinary discourse, of many parts: and that what we say in that kind, is true, notwithstanding the unity of the thing. Which will appear plainly, if we consider that our understanding hath a custom for the better discerning of things, to impose upon a thing as it is under one notion, the exclusion of itself as it is under other notions. And this is evident unto all scholars, when the mark of exclusion is expressly put: as when they speak of a white thing, adding the reduplication, as it is white: which excludeth all other considerations of that thing, besides the whiteness of it: but when it cometh under some particular name of the thing, it may deceive those that are not cunning: though indeed, most men discover it in such names as we call abstracted; as humanity, animality, and the like. But it easily deceiveth when it cometh in concrete names; as it doth in the name of Part in general, or in the names of particular parts; as a hand, an eye, an inch, an elle, and others of the like nature: for as you see that a part excludeth both the notion of the whole, and of the remaining parts: so doth a hand, an eye, an elle, exclude all the rest of that thing, whereof the hand is a hand, and the elle is an elle, and so forth. Now then, as every man seeth evidently that it can not be said; the wall as it is white is plaster or stone: no more can it be said, that the hand of a man is a foot; because the word hand signifieth as much in itself, as if the man were taken, by reduplication, to be the man as he is hand, or as he hath the power of holding. So likewise, in the rod we spoke of before; it can not be said that the part seen is the part unseen; because the part seen, signifieth the rod as it is a possibility to be made by division such a thing, as it appeareth to the sight. And thus it is clear how the difficulty of this point, ariseth out of the wrongful applying the conditions of our notions, and of names, to the objects and things which we know: where of we gave warning in the beginning. 
Chap. 1. §. 2.3.   

8 An enumeration of the several specieses of Quantity, which confirmeth that the essence of it is divisibility.  After which there remaineth no more to be said of this subject, but to enumerate the several specieses of Quantity, according to that division which Logicians for more facility of discourse have made of it. Namely, these six: magnitudine, place, motion, time, number, and weight. Of which, the two first are permanent, and lie still exposed to the pleasure of whosoever hath a mind to take a survey of them. Which he may do by measuring what parts they are divisible into; how many else, feet, inches, a thing is long broad or deep; how great a place is; whether it be not bigger or lesser than such an other; and by such considerations as these; which do all agree in this, that they express the essence of those two specieses of Quantity, to consist in a capacity of being divided into parts.  
The two next; motion and time; though they be of a fleeting propriety, yet it is evident that in regard of their original and essential nature, they are nothing else but a like divisibility into parts; which is measured by passing over so great or so little distance; and by years, days, hours, minutes, and the like. Number we also see is of the same nature; for it is divisible into so many determinate parts, and is measured by unities, or by lesser numbers so or so often contained in a proposed greater. And the like is evident of weight, which is divisible into pounds, ounces, dams, or grains; and by them is measured. So that looking over all the several specieses of Quantity; it is evident, our definition of it is a true one, and expresseth fully the essence of it, when we say it is divisibility, or a capacity to be divided into parts: and that no other notion whatsoever, besides this, reacheth the nature of it.   

THE THIRD CHAPTER. Of Rarity and Density.  
I INTENT in this Chapter to look as far as I can into the nature and causes of the two first differences of bodies, 
1 What is meant by Rarity and Density.  which follow out of Quantity as it concurreth with substance to make a body: for, the discovery of them, and of the various proportions of them among themselves, will be a great and important step in the journey we are going. But the scarcity of our language is such, in subiets removed from ordinary conversation, (though in others, I think none is more copious or expressive) as affordeth us not apt words of our own to express significantly such notions as I must busy myself about in this discourse. Therefore I will presume to borrow them from the Latin school, where there is much ado about them. I would express the difference between bodies, that under the same measures and outward bulk, have a greater thinnenesse and expansion, or thickness and solidity, one than an other; which terms, (or any I can find in English) do not signify fully those affections of Quantity that I intent here to declare: therefore I will do it under the names of Rarity and Density; the true meaning of which will appear by what we shall hereafter say.  

2 It is evident that some bodies are rare and others dense; though obsu●e, how they are such.  It is evident unto us, that there are different sorts of bodies, of which though you take equal quantities in one regard, yet they will be unequal in an other. Their magnitudes may be the same, but their weights will be different; or chose, their weights being equal, their outward measures will not be so. Take a pint of air; and weigh it against a pint of water, and you will see the balance of the last go down amain: but if you drive out the air by filling the pint with lead, the other pint in which the water is, will rise again as fast: which if you pour out, and fill that pint with quicksilver, you will perceive the lead to be much lighter: and again, you will find a pint of gold heavier than so much Mercury. And in like manner, if you take away of the heavy bodies till they agree in weight with the lighter, they will take up and fill different proportions, and parts of the measure that shall contain them.  
But from whence this effect ariseth, is the difficulty that we would lay open. Our measures tell us their quantities are equal; and reason assureth us, there can not be two bodies in one and the same place; therefore when we see that a pint of one thing outweigheth a pint of an other that is thinner, we must conclude that there is more body compacted together in the heavy thing then in the light: for else how could so little of a solid or dense thing, be stretched out, to take up so great room, as we see in a basin of water that being rarifyed into smoke or air, filleth a whole chamber? and again, shrink back into so little room, as when it returneth into water, or is contracted into ice? But how this comprehension of more body in equal room is effected, doth not a little trouble Philosophers.  

3 A brief enumeration of the several properties belonging to rare and dense bodies.  To find a way that may carry us through these difficulties that arise out of the Rarity and Density of bodies, let us do as Astronomers when they inquire the motions of the Spheres and Planets: they take all the Phenomena or several appearances of them to our eyes; and then attribute to them such orbs, courses, and periodes, as may square and fit with every one of them; and by supposing them, they can exactly calculate all that will ever after happen to them in their motions. So let us take into our consideration the chief properties of rare and dense bodies, and then cast with ourselves to find out an hypothesis, or supposition (if it be possible) that may agree with them all.  
First, it seemeth unto us that dense bodies have their parts more close and compacted, than others have, that are more rare and subtle. Secondly they are more heavy, then rare ones. Again, the rare are more easily divided then the dense bodies: for water, oil, milk, honey, and such like substances will not only yield easily to any harder thing that shall make its way through them; but they are so apt to division and to lose their continuity, that their own weights will overcome and break it: whereas in iron, gold, marble, and such dense bodies, a much greater weight and force, is necessary to work that effect. And indeed if we look well into it, we shall find that the rarer things, are as divisible in a lesser Quantity, as the more dense are in a greater: and the same force will break the rarer thing into more and lesser parts, than it will an equal one that is more dense. Take a stick of light wood of such a bigness that being a foot long, you may break it with your hands, and an other of the same bigness, but of a more heavy and compacted wood, and you shall not break it, though it be two foot long: and with equal force you may break a loaf of bread into more and less parts, than a lump of lead that is of the same bigness. Which also will resist more to the division of fire (the subtlest divider that is) then so much water will; for the little atoms of fire (which we shall discourse of hereafter) will pierce and cut out in the water, almost as little parts as themselves, and mingling themselves with them they will fly away together, and so convert the whole body of water into subtle smoke: whereas the same Agent, after long working upon lead, will bring it into no less parts then small grains of dust, which it calcineth it into. And gold, that is more dense than lead, resisteth peremptorily all the dividing power of fire; and will not at all be reduced into a calx or lime by such operation as reduced lead into it.  
So that remembering, how the nature of Quantity is Divisibility; and considering that rare things are more divisible than dense ones; we must needs acknowledge that the nature of Quantity is some way more perfectly in things that are rare, then in those that are dense. On the other side, more compacted and dense things, may happily seem to some to have more Quantity than those that are rare; and that it is but shrunk together; which may be stretched out and driven into much greater dimensions than the Quantity of rare things, taking the quantities of each of them equal in outward appearance. As gold may be beaten into much more and thinner leaf, than an equal bulk of silver or lead. A wax candle will burn longer with equal light, than a tallow candle of the same bigness; and consequently, be converted into a greater Quantity of fire and air. Oil will make much more flame than spirit of wine, that is far rarer than it.  
These and such like considerations, 
4 The opinion of those Philosophers declared, who put rarity to consist in an actual division of a body into little parts.  have much perplexed Philosophers, and have driven them into divers thoughts to find out the reasons of them. Some observing that the dividing of a body into little parts, maketh it less apt to descend, then when it is in greater; have believed the whole cause of litghnesse and rarity to be derived from division. As for example; they find that lead cut into little pieces, will not go down so fast in water, as when it is in bulk: and it may be reduced into so small atoms, that it will for some space swim upon the water like dust of wood.  
Which assumption is proved by the great Galileus; unto whose excellent wit and admirable industry, the world is beholding, not only for his wonderful discoveries made in the heavens, but also for his accurate and learned declaring of those very things that lie under our feet. He, about the 90th page of his first Dialogue of motion, doth clearly demonstrate how any real medium must of necessity resist more the descent of a little piece of lead, or any other weighty matter, than it would a greater piece: and the resistance will be greater and greater as the pieces are lesser and lesser. So that, as the pieces are made less, they will in the same medium sink the slower; and do seem to have acquired a new nature of lightness by their diminution: not only of having less weight in them then they had; as half an ounce is less than a whole ounce: but also of having in themselves a less proportion of weight to their bulk than they had; as a pound of cork, is in regard of its magnitude lighter than a pound of lead: so as they conclude, that the thing whose continued parts are the lesser, is in its own nature the lighter and the rarer; and other things whose continued parts are greater, they be heavier and denser.  

5 The former opinion rejected, and the ground of their error discovered.  But this discourse reacheth not home: for by it, the weight of any body being discovered by the proportion it hath to the medium, in which it descendeth, it must ever suppose a body lighter than itself in which it may sink and go to the bottom. Now of that lighter body, I inquire what maketh it be so; and you must answer by what you have concluded, that it is lighter than the other, because the parts of it are less, and more severed from one an other: for if they be as close together, their division availeth them nothing, since things sticking fast together, do work as if they were but one, and so a pound of lead though it be filled into small dust, if it be compacted hard together, will sink as fast as if it were in one bulk.  
Now then allowing the little parts to be separated, I ask, what other body filleth up the spaces between those little parts of the medium in which your heavy body descended? For if the parts of water are more severed than the parts of lead, there must be some other substance to keep the parts of it a sunder: let us suppose this to be air: and I ask, whether an equal part of air, be as heavy as so much water? or whether it be not? If you say, it is; then the compound of water and air, must be as heavy as lead; seeing that their parts, one with an other, are as much compacted as the parts of lead are. For there is no difference whether those bodies, whose little parts are compacted together be of the same substance, or of divers, or whether the one be divided into smaller parts than the other, or no, (so they be of equal weights) in regard of making the whole equally heavy: as you may experience, if you mingle pinnedust with a sand of equal weight, though it be beaten into far smaller divisions than the pinnedust, and put them in a bag together.  
But if you say that air is not so heavy as water; it must be, because every part of air hath again its parts more severed by some other body, than the parts of water are severed by air. And then, I make the same instance of that body which severeth the parts of air. And so, att the last (since there can not actually be an infinite process of bodies one lighter than an other) you must come to one, whose little parts filling the pores and spaces between the parts of the others, have no spaces in themselves to be filled up.  
But as soon as you acknowledge such a body to be lighter and rarer than all the rest, you contradict and destroy all you said before. For by reason of its having no pores, it followeth by your rule, that the little parts of it must be as heavy, if not heavier, than the little parts of the same bigness of that body whose pores it filleth; and consequently it is proved by the experience we alleged of pinnedust mingled with sand that the little parts of it, can not by their mingling with the parts of the body in which it is immediately contained, make that lighter than it would be if these little parts were not mingled with it. Nor would both their parts mingled with the body which immediately containeth them, make that body lighter. And so proceeding on in the same sort through all the mingled bodies, till you come to the last, that is immediately mingled with water; you will make water nothing the lighter, for being mingled with all these; and by consequence it should be as heavy and as dense as lead.  
Now that which deceived the authors of this opiniion, was that they had not a right intelligence of the causes which made little parts of bodies (naturally heavy) descend slowly, in regard of the velocity of greater parts of the same bodies descending: the doctrine of which we intent to deliver hereafter.  
Others therefore perceiving this rule to fall short, 
6 The opinion of those Philosophers related, who put rarity to consist in the mixtion of vacuity among bodies.  have endeavoured to piece it out by the mixtion of vacuity among bodies; believing it is that which maketh one rarer than an other. Which mixtion they do not put always immediate to the main body they consider: but if it have other rarer and lighter bodies mingled with it, they conceive this mixtion immediate only to the rarest, or lightest. As for example; a crystal being lighter and consequently rarer than a diamond, they will not say that there is more vacuity in a crystal then in a diamond; but that the pores of a crystal are greater, and that consequently there is more air in a crystal to fill the pores of it, then is in a diamond; and the vacuities are in the air, which abounding in a crystal, more than in a diamond, maketh that lighter and rarer than this, by the more vacuities that are in the greater Quantity of air which is migled with it.  
But against this supposition, a powerful adversary is urged: for Aristotle, in his 4th book of Physics, hath demonstrated that there can be no motion in vacuity. It is true, they endeavour to evade his demonstration (as not reaching home to their supposition) by acknowledging it to be an evident one in such a vacuity as he there speaketh of; which he supposed to be so great a one that a body may swim in it as in an ocean, and not touch or be near any other body: whereas this opinion excludeth all such vast inanity, and admitteth no vacuities but so little ones as no body whatsoever can come unto but will be bigger than they; and consequently, must on some side or other touch the corporeal parts which those vacuities divide; for they are the separations of the least parts, that are, or can be, actually divided from one an other: which parts, must of necessity touch one an other on some side; or else, they could not hang together to compose one substance; and therefore, the dividing vacuities, must be less than the divided parts. And thus, no body will ever be in danger of floating up and down without touching any thing: which is the difficulty that Aristotle chiefly impugneth.  

7 The opinion of vacuities refuted.  I confess I should be very glad that this supposition might serve our turn, and save the Phoenomena that appear among bodies, through their variety of Rarity and Density: which if it might be, then would I strait go on to the enquiring after what followed out of this ground, as Astronomers (to use our former similitude) do calculate the future appearances of the celestial bodies out of those motions and orbs they assign unto the heavens. For as this apprehension of vacuity in bodies is very easy and intelligibile: so the other (which I conceive to be the truth of the case) is exceedingly abstracted, and one of the most difficult points in all the Metaphysics: and therefore I would (if it were possible) avoid touching upon it in this discourse, which I desire should be as plain and easy, and as much removed from scholastic terms, as may be.  
But indeed, the inconveniences that follow out of this supposition of vacuities, are so great, as it is impossible by any means to slide them over. 
Dialog. 1. deal Movim. pag. 81.  As for example; let us borrow of Galilaeus the proportion of weight between water and air. He showeth us how the one is 400 times heavyer than the other. And Marinus Ghetaldus teacheth us that gold is 19 times heavyer than water: so that gold must be 7600 times heavyer than air. 
Archimed. Promote.  Now then considering that nothing in a body can weigh, but the solid parts of it; it followeth that the proportion of the parts of gold in a sphere of an inch diameter, is to the parts of air of a like dimension as 7600 is to one. Therefore in air itself the vacuities that are supposed in it, will be to the solid parts of it in the same proportion as 7600 to one. Indeed, the proportion of difference will be greater: for even in gold many vacuities must be admitted, as appeareth by the heating of it which showeth that in every the least part, it is exceeding porous. But according to this rate, without pressing the inconvenience any further; the air will by this reckoning appear to be like a net, whose holes and distances, are to the lines and thriddes, in the proportion of 7600 to one; and so, would be liable to have little parts of its body swim in those greater vacuities; contrary to what they strive to avoid. Which would be exceedingly more, if we found on the one side any bodies heavyer and denser than gold, and that were so solid as to exclude all vacuities; and on the other side should balance them with such bodies as are lighter and rarer than air; as fire is, and as some will have the aether to be. But already the disproportion is so great, and the vacuity so strangely exceedeth the body in which it is, as were too great an absurdity to be admitted.  
And besides, it would destroy all motion of small bodies in the air, if it be true (as Aristotle hath demonstrated in the 4th book of his Physics) that motion can not be made, but among bodies, and not in vacuo.  
Again, if rarity were made by vacuity, rare bodies could not be gathered together, without losing their rarity and becoming dense. The contrary of which, we learn by constant experience; as when the smith and glassemender, drive their white and fury fires, (as they term them;) when air pierceth most in the sharp wind; and generally we see that more of the same kind of rare bodies, in less place, worketh most efficaciously according to the nature that resulteth out of that degree of rarity. Which argueth, that every little part is as rare as it was before (for else it would lose the virtue of working according to that nature;) but that by their being crowded together, they exclude all other bodies that before did mediate between the little parts of their main body; and so, more parts being gotten together in the same place then formerly there were, they work more forcibly.  
Thirdly; if such vacuities were the cause of rarity; it would follow that fluid bodies being rarer than solid ones, they would be of themselves standing, like nets or cobbewebbes: whereas chose, we see their natures are to run together, and to fill up every little creek and corner: which effect, following out of the very nature of the things themselves; must needs exclude vacuities out of that nature.  
And lastly; if it be true (as we have showed in the last Chapter) that there are no actual parts in Quantity; it followeth of necessity, that all Quantity must of it sel●e be one; as Metaphysics teach us: and then, no distance can be admitted between one Quantity and an other.  
And truly, if I understand Aristotle right; he hath perfectly demonstrated, that no vacuity is possible in nature; neither great nor little: and consequently, the whole machine raised upon that supposition, must be ruinous. His argument is to this purpose. What is nothing, can not have parts: but vacuum is nothing (because as the adversaries conceive it, vacuum is the want of a corporeal substance in an enclosing body, within whose sides nothing is, whereas a certain body might be contained whithin them, as if in a pail or bowl of a gallon, there were neither milk, nor water, nor air, nor any other body whatsoever) therefore, vacuum can not have parts. Yet those who admit it do put it expressly for a space; which doth essentially include parts. And thus they put two contradictories, nothing and parts, that is, parts and no parts; or something and nothing; in the same proposition. And this, I conceive to be absolutely unavoidable.  

8 Rarity and Désity consist in the several proportions, which Quantity hath to its substance.  For these reasons therefore, I must entreat my reader's favour, that he will allow me to touch upon metaphysics a little more than I desire or intended: but it shall be no otherwise, then as is said, of the dogs by the river Nilus' side; who being thirsty, lap hastily of the water, only to serve their necessity as they run along the shore. Thus then; remembering how we determined that Quantity is Divisibility: it followeth, that if besides Quantity there be a substance or thing which is divisible; that thing, if it be condistinguished from its Quantity or Divisibility, must of itself be indivisible: or (to speak more properly) it must be, not divisible. Put then such substance to be capable of the Quantity of the whole world or universe: and consequently, you put it of itself indifferent to all, and to any part of Quantity: for in it, by reason of the negation of Divisibility, there is no variety of parts, whereof one should be the subject of one part of Quantity, or another of another; or that one should be a capacity of more, another of less.  
This then being so, we have the ground of more or less proportion between substance and quantity: for if the whole quantity of the universe be put into it, the proportion of Quantity to the capacity of that substance, will be greater then if but half that quantity were imbibed in the same substance. And because proportion changeth on both sides by the single change of only one side: it followeth that in the latter, the proportion of that substance to its Quantity, is greater; and that in the former, it is less; howbeit the substance in itself be indivisible.  
What we have said thus in abstract, will sink more easily into us if we apply it to some particular bodies here among us, in which we see a difference of Rarity and Density; as to air, water gold, or the like; and examine if the effects that happen to them, do follow out of this disproportion between substance and Quantity. For example let us conceive that all the Quantity of the world were in one uniform substance, than the whole universe would be in one and the same degree of Rarity ad Density: let that degree, be the degree of water; it will then follow, that in what part soever there happeneth to be a change from this degree, that part will not have that proportion of quantity to its substance, which the quantity of the whole world had to the presupposed uniform substance. But if it happeneth to have the degree of rarity which is in the air, it will then have more quantity in proportion to its substance, then would be due unto it according to the presupposed proportion of the quantity of the universe to the foresaid uniform substance; which in this case is as it were the standard to try all other proportions by. And chose, if it happeneth to have the degree of Density which is found in Earth or in gold; than it will have less quantity in proportion to its substance, then would be due unto it according to the fore said proportion, or common standard.  
Now to proceed from hence, with examining the effects which result out of this compounding of Quantity with substance, we may first consider, that the definitions which Aristotle hath given us of Rarity and Density, are the same we drive at: he telleth us, that that body is rare whose quantity is more, and its substance less; that, chose dense, where the substance is more and the quantity less. Now if we look into the proprieties of the bodies we have named, or of any others, we shall see them all follow clearly out of these definitions. For first, that one is more diffused, an other more compacted; such diffusion and compaction, seem to be the very natures of Rarity and Density, supposing them to be such as we have defined them to be; seeing that, substance is more diffused by having more parts, or by being in more parts; and is more compacted by the contrary. And then, that rare bodies are more divisible than dense ones, you see is coincident into the same conceit with their diffusion and compaction. And from hence again it followeth, that they are more easily divided in great, and likewise, that they are by the force of natural Agents divisible into lesser parts: for both these (that is facility of being divided, and easy divisibility into lesser parts) are contained in being more divisible; or in more enjoying the effect of quantity, which is divisibility. From this again followeth, that in rare bodies there is less resistance to the motion of an other body through it, then in dense ones; and therefore a like force passeth more easily through the one, then through the other. Again; rare bodies are more penetrative and active then dense ones; because being (by their overproportion of quantity) easily divisible into small parts, they can run into every little poor, and so incorporate themselves better into other bodies, then more dense ones can. Light bodies likewise must be rarer, because most divisible, if other circumstances concur equally.  
Thus you see deciphered unto your hand, the first division of bodies flowing from Quantity as it is ordained to substance for the composition of a body: for since the definition of a body is; A thing which hath parts; and quantity is that, by which it hath parts; and the first propriety of quantity is, to be bigger or less; and consequently the first differences of having parts, are to have bigger or less, more or fewer; what division of a body can be more simple, more plain, or more immediate, then to divide it by its Quantity as making it to have bigger or less, more or fewer parts in proportion to its substance?  
Neither can I justly be blamed for touching thus on Metaphysics, to explicate the nature of these two kinds of bodies; for Metaphysics being the science above Physics, it belongeth unto her to declare the principles of Physics: of which, these we have now in hand, are the very first step. But much more, if we consider that the composition of quantity with substance, is purely Metaphysical; we must necessarily allow the inquiry into the nature of Rarity and Density, to be wholly Metaphysical; seeing that the essence of Rarity and Density, standeth in the proportion of quantity to substance; if we believe Aristotle, (the greatest master that ever was, of finding out definitions and notions) and trust to the uncontrollable reasons we have brought in the precedent discourse.  

9 All must admit in Physical bodies, a Metaphysical composition.  This explication of Rarity and Density, by the composition of substance with quantity, may peradventure give little satisfaction unto such as are not used to raise their thoughts above Physical and natural speculations: who are apt to conceive, there is no other composition or resolution, but such as our senses show us in compounding and dividing of bodies according to quantative parts. Now this obligeth us to show that such a kind of composition and division as this, must necessarily be allowed of, even in that course of doctrine which seems most contrary to ours. To which purpose, let us suppose that the position of Democritus or of Epicurus is true; to wit, that the original composition of all bodies, is out of very little ones of various figures; all of them, indivisible, not Mathematically, but Physically: and that this infinite number of indivisibles, doth float in an immense ocean of vacuum or imaginary space. In this position, let any man who conceiveth their grounds may be maintained, explicate how one of these little bodies is moved. For, taking two parts of vacuum, in which this body successively is; it is clear, that really, and not only in my understanding, it is a difference in the said body, to be now here, now there: wherefore, when the body is gone thither, the notion of being here, is no more in the body; and consequently, is divided from the body. And therefore, when the body was here; there was a composition, between the body, and its being here: which, seeing it can not be betwixt two parts of Quantity, must of necessity be such a kind of composition, as we put between quantity and substance. And certainly, let men wrack their brains never so much, they will never be able to show how motion is made, without some such composition and division, upon what grounds soever they proceed.  
And if then they tell us, that they understand not how there can be a divisibility between substance and quantity; we may reply, that to such a divisibility two things are required; first that the notions of substance and quantity be different; secondly, that the one of them may be changed without the other. As for the first, it is most evident we make an absolute distinction between their two notions; both, when we say that Socrates was bigger a man then a boy; and when we conceive that milk or water whiles it boileth, or wine whiles it worketh, so as they run over the vessels they are in; are greater and possess more place than when they were cool and quiet, and filled not the vessel to the brim. For howsoever, witty explications may seem to evade, that the same thing is now greater, now lesser; yet it can not be avoided, but that ordinary men, who look not into Philosophy, do both conceive it to be so, and in their familiar discourse express it so; which they could not do, if they had not different notions of the substance, and of the quantity of the thing they speak of. And though we had no such evidences, the very names and definitions of them would put it beyond strife: all men calling substance, a thing; quantity, bigness: and referring a thing, to Being; as who would say; that which is: but bigness, to some other of like nature, unto which it is compared; as, that it is half as big, twice as big, or the like.  
This then being unavoidable, that the notions are distinguished; there remaineth no difficulty, but only in the second, namely that the one may be changed, and the other not. Which reason and demonstration do convince, as we have showed. Wherefore, if any shall yet further reply, that they do not understand how such change is made; we shall answer, by ask them whether they know; how the change of being sometimes here, sometimes there is made by local motion in vacuum, without a change in the body moved. Which question, if they can not satisfy; they must either deny that there is any local motion in vacuum; or else admit a change in quantity, without a change in substance; for this latter is as evidently true, as they suppose the former to be; though the manner how they are effected, be alike obscure in both, and the reason of the obscurity, the same in both.  
With which we will conclude the present Chapter; adding only this note. That if all Physical things and natural changes do proceed out of the constitution of rare and dense bodies in this manner, as we do put them, (as the work we have in hand intendeth to show) then, so manifold effects will so convince the truth of this doctrine which we have declared, that there can remain no doubt of it: neither can there be any, of the divisibility of quantity from substance; without which, this doctrine can not consist. For it can not be understood, how there is a greater proportion of quantity then of substance; or chose, of substance then of quantity; if there be not a real divisibility between quantity and substance. And much less can it be conceived, that the same thing hath at one time a greater proportion of quantity, and at an other time a less; if the greater or lesser proportion, be not separable from it; that is, if there be not a divisibility betwixt it and substance, as well as there are different notions of them. Which to prove by the proper principles belonging to this matter, would require us to make a greater inroade into the very bowels of Metaphysics, and to take a larger circuit, then is fitting either for the subject, or for the intended brevity of this treatise.   

THE FOURTH CHAPTER. Of the four first qualities: and of the four Elements.  

1 The notions of density and rarity have a latitude capable of infinite variety.  THE subject of our discourse hitherto, hath been three simple notions; Quantity, Rarity, and Density. Now it shall be to inquire if by compounding these with gravity or weight (which is one of the specieses of Quantity above mentioned and of which I shall speak at large hereafter) we may beget any further qualities, and so produce the four first bodies, called Elements. In imitation of Logicians, who by compounding such propositions as of themselves are evident to man's nature assoon as they are proposed, do bring forth new knowledges: which thriddes they still entermixe and weave together, till they grow into a fair piece. And thus the sciencies tehy so much labour for, and that have so great an extent, do result out of few and simple notions in their beginnings.  
But before we fall to mingling and comparing them together, I think it will not be amiss to set down, and determine what kind of things we mean by rare and what by dense; to the end that when the names are agreed upon, we may slip into no error by mistaking them. So then, although there be several considerations, in regard of which, rarity and density may be differently attributed to bodies: yet because man's discerning them, to be able to discourse accordingly of them, is the principal respect for which their denominations are to be allotted them: we may with reason call those things dense, wherein a man findeth a sensible difficulty to part them; and those rare, where the resistance is imperceptible.  
And unto these two notions of rarity and density, we must allow a great latitude, far from consisting in an indivisible state; for seeing that rarefaction maketh a lesser body equal to a bigger; and that all inequality betwixt two bodies, hath the conditions of a body; it followeth that the excess of one body over an other, consisteth of infinite parts into which it might be divided: and consequently, that what is rarified, passeth as many degrees as the inequality or excess hath parts. And the same law being in condensation, both dense and rare things must be acknowledged to be capable of infinite variety, and diversity of states in regard of more and less in the same kind.  
These things being premised; 
2 How moistness and dryness are begotten in dense bodies.  and calling to mind that it is the nature of density to make the parts of a dense thing compact, and stick together, and be hardly divisible; and on the contrary side, that it is the nature of rarity, to diffuse and extend a rare thing, and to prepare and approach it to division, according to the proportion of the degree of rarity which it hath; and that weight doth abound where there is excess of density, and is very little or none in excess of rarity: we may now begin in our imagination to put these qualities into the scales one against an other, to see what effects they produce in bodies. And first, let us weigh gravity against density or sticking together of parts: which sticking or compactedness being natural to density, requireth some excess of gravity in proportion to the density, or some other outward violence, to break it. If then in a dense body the gravity overcome the density, and do make the parts of it break a sunder, it will draw them downwards towards the centre that gravity tendeth unto, and will never let them rest till they come thither, unless some impediment meet them by the way and stop their journey: so that such a body will, as near as possibly it can, lie in a perfect spherical figure in respect of the centre; and the parts of it will be changed and altered, and thrust on any side that is the ready way thither; so that by the force of gravity working upon it, it will run as far as it meeteth with nothing to hinder it from attaining this spherical superficies. Wherefore such bodies, for the most part, have no settled outside of their own; but do receive their figure and limits from such lets as hinder them from attaining to that sphericalnesse they aim at.  
Now Aristotle (whose definitions, are in these matters generally received, as fully expressing the notions of mankind) telleth us, and our own experience confirmeth it, that we use to call those things moist, which run in such sort as we have here set down; and that we term those things dry, which have a consistence within themselves; and which to enjoy a determinate figure, do not require the stop or hindrance of an other body to limit and circled them in: which will be the nature of those that have a greater proportion of density in respect of their gravity.  
And thus, out of the comparison of density with weight, we have found two more qualities than we yet had met withal, namely wettenesse and dryness. For although a body be dense, (which of its own nature, singly considered, would preserve the continuity of its parts, as making the body hardly divisible; whereby it would be dry) yet if the gravity that worketh upon it, be in proportion greater than the density; it will sever the parts of it, and make them run to the centre, and so become fluid and moist: though not in the eminentest degree that may be of fluidity and moisture; by reason that if the like overproportion of gravity happen in a rare body, it will there more powerfully work its effect, than it can in a dense body; because a rare body will more easily obey, and yield to the gravity that mastereth it, than a dense one will; and consequently, will be more fluid and moist than it.  
Now on the other side, in weighing rarity against gravity; if it happen that the rarity overcome the gravity, 
3 How moistness and dryness are begotten in rare bodies.  than the gravity will not change the figure of a body so proportioned, but what figure it hath from its proper natural causes, the same will still remain with it: and consequently, such a body will have terms of its own and will not require an ambient body to limit, and circled it in: which nature, we call dry.  
But if the proportion of the gravity be the greater and do overcome the rarity; then, by how much the rarity is greater, so much the more will the gravity force it, to apply itself equally and on all sides to the centre: and such a body will the more easily receive its figure from an other, and will be less able to consist of itself: which properties, we attribute to wettenesse or moisture. So that it appeareth, how the qualities of wet and dry, which first we found in things that were dense, are also common to that nature of bodies, which we term rare.  
And thus, by our first inquiry after what kind of bodies do result out of the compounding of rarity and density with gravity, we discover four different sorts: some dense ones that are dry, and others likewise dense that are moist: then again, some rare ones that are likewise moist, and other rare ones that are dry.  
But we must not rest here: let us proceed a little further, to search what other properties these four kinds of bodies will have; 
4 Heat is a property of rare bodies, and cold of dense ones.  which we shall best discover, if we apply them severally to some other compounded body (of which nature, are all those we converse with or see) and then consider the effects which these do work upon it. To begin with that, which we said, is so excessively rare that gravity hath no power over it. If we look upon the multitude of little parts it may be divided into, whereof every one will subsist by itself (for we have already proved it dry) and then suppose them to be moved with force and strength against the body we apply them to: it must necessarily follow, that they will forcibly get into the porousnesse of it, and pass with violence between part and part, and of necessity separate the parts of that thing one from an other; as a knife or wedge doth a solid substance, by having their thinnest parts pressed into it: so that if in the compounded thing, some parts be more weighty, others more light, (as of necessity there must be) the heaviest will all fall lowest, the lightest will fly uppermost, and those which are of a mean nature between the two extremes, will remain in the middle. In sum, by this action of an extreme rare body upon a compounded one, all the parts of one kind that were in the compounded one, will be gathered into one place; and those of divers kinds into divers places: which is the notion whereby Aristotle hath expressed the nature of heat; and is an effect, which daily experience in burning and boiling, teacheth us to proceed from heat. And therefore we can not doubt, but that such extreme rare bodies are as well hot as dry.  
On the other side, if a dense thing be applied to a compound, it will (because it is weighty) press it together: and if that application be continued on all sides, so that no part of the body that is pressed be free from the siege of the dense body that presseth it, it will form it into a narrower room, and keep in the parts of it, not permitting any of them to slip out. So that what things soever it findeth within its power to master, be they light or heavy, or of what contrary natures soever, it compresseth them as much as it can, and draweth them into a less compass, and holdeth them strongly together, making them stick fast to one an other. Which effect, Aristotle took for the proper notion of cold▪ and therefore gave for definition of the nature of it, that it gathereth things of divers natures: and experience showeth us in freezing, and all great coolinges, that this effect proceedeth from cold.  
But if we examine which of the two sorts of dense bodies (the fluid or the consistent) is most efficacious in this operation; 
5 Of the two dense bodies, the less dense is more cold: but of the two rare ones the less rare is less hot.  we shall find that the less dense one is more capable of being applied round about the body it shall besiege; and therefore will stop closer every little hole of it, and will more easily send subtle parts into every little vein of it; and by consequence, shrink it up together and coagulate, and constringe it more strongly, than a body can that is extremely dense; which by reason of its great density, and the stubborness of its parts, can not so easily bend and ply them to work this effect. And therefore, a body that is moderately dense, is colder than an other that is so in excess; seeing that cold is an active or working power, and that which is less dense doth excel in working.  
On the contrary side, rare bodies being hot, because their subtle parts environing a compounded body will sink into the pores of it, and to their power separate its parts; it followeth that those wherein the gravity overcometh the rarity, are less hot than such others as are in the extremity, and highest excess of rarity: both, because the former are not able to pierce so little parts of the resisting dense body, as extreme rare ones are; and likewise, because they more easily take ply by the obstacle of the solid ones they meet with, than these do.  
So that out of this discourse we gather, that of such bodies that differ precisely by the proportion of Rarity and Density; those which are extremely rare, are in the excess of heat, and are dry withal: that weighty rare bodies are extremely humid, and meanly hot: that fluid dense bodies are moist, though not in such excess as rare ones that are so; but are coldest of any: and lastly, that extreme dense bodies are less cold than fluid dense ones, and that they are dry.  

6 The extreme dense body is more dry, than the extreme rare one.  But whether the extreme dense bodies, be more or less dry than such as are extremely rare, remaineth yet to be decided. Which we shall easily do, if we but reflect that it is density which maketh a thing hard to be divided, and that rarity maketh it easy: for, a facility to yield unto division, is nothing else but a pliableness in the thing that is to be divided, whereby it easily receiveth the figure, which the thing that divideth it doth cast it into. Now this pliableness belongeth more to rare then to dense things: and accordingly, we see fire bend more easily, by the concameration of an oven, than a stone can be reduced into due figure by hewing. And therefore, since dryness is a quality that maketh those bodies wherein it reigneth, to conserve themselves in their own figure and limits, and to resist the receiving of any from an other body; it is manifest that those are driest, wherein these effects are most seen; which is, in dense bodies: and consequently, excess of dryness must be allotted unto them, to keep company with their moderate coldness.  

7 There are but four simple bodies: and these are rightly named Elements.  Thus we see that the number of Elements assigned by Aristotle, is truly and exactly determined by him; and that there can be neither more nor less of them; and that their qualities are rightly allotted to them: which to settle more firmly in our minds, it will not be misse-spent time to sum up in short, the effect of what we have hitherto said to bring us unto this conclusion. First, we showed that a body is made, and constituted a body by quantity. Next, that the first division of bodies is into rare and dense ones; as differing only by having more and less quantity. And lastly, that the conjunction of gravity with these two, breedeth two other sorts of combinations: each of which is also twofold; the first sort, concerning rarity; out of which ariseth one extremely hot and moderately dry, and an other extremely humid and moderately hot: the second sort, concerning density; out of which, is produced one that is extremely cold and moderately wet, and an other extremely dry and moderately cold. And these are the combinations whereby are constituted, fire, air, water, and earth.  
So that we have thus, the proper notions of the four Elements; and have both them and their qualities driven up and resolved into their most simple principles: which are, the notions of Quantity, and of the two most simple differences of quantative things, Rarity and Density. Beyond which, man's wit can not penetrate; nor can his wishes aim at more in this particular: seeing he hath attained to the knowledge of what they are, and of what maketh them, be so, and that it is impossible they should be otherwise: and this, by the most simple and first principles, which enter into the composition of their nature. Out of which it is evident, that these four bodies are Elements: since they can not be resolved into any others, by way of physical composition; themselves, being constituted by the most simple differences of a body. And again, all other bodies whatsoever must of necessity, be resolved into them, for the same reason; because no bodies can be exempt from the first differences of abody. Since then, we mean by the name of an Element, a body not composed of any former bodies, and of which all other bodies are composed, we may rest satisfied that these are rightly so named.  
But whether every one of these four elements, 
8 The Author doth not determine whether every element doth comprehend under its name one only lowest species, or many: nor whether any of them be found pure.  do comprehend under its name one only lowest species, or many (as, whether there be one only species of fire, or several; and the like of the rest) we intent not here to determine. Yet we note, that there is a great latitude in every kind; seeing that, Rarity and Density (as we have said before) are as divisible as quantity. Which latitudes, in the bodies we converse withal, are so limited that what maketh itself and other things be seen (as being accompanied by light) is called fire. What admitteth the illuminative action of fire, and is not seen, is called air. What admitteh the same action, and is seen (in the rank of Elements) is called water. And what through the density of it admitteth not that action, but absolutely reflecteth it, is called earth.  
And out of all we said of these four Elements, it is manifest there can not be a fifth: as is to be seen at large in every Aristotelian Philosopher that writeth of this matter. I am not ignorant that there are sundry objections used to be made, both against these notions of the first qualities, and against this division of the Elements: but because they, and their solutions, are to be found in every ordinary Philosopher; and that they be not of any great difficulty; and that the handling them, is too particular for the design of this discourse, and would make it too prolix; I refer the Reader to seek them for his satisfaction, it those authors that treat physics professedly, and have delivered a complete body of Philosophy.  
And I will end this Chapter with advertising him (lest I should be misunderstood) that though my disquisition here hath pitched upon the four bodies of fire, air, water, and earth; yet it is not my intention to affirm, that those which we ordinarily call so, and do fall daily within our use, are such as I have here expressed them: or that these Philosophical ones (which arise purely out of the combination of the first qualities) have their residence or consistence in great bulks, in any places of the world, be they never foe remote: as, fire, in the hollow of the moons orb; water, in the bottom of the sea; air, above the clouds; and earth below the mines. But these notions are only to serve for certain Ideas of Elements; by which, the four named bodies, and the compounds of them, may be tried and receive their doom of more or less pure and approaching to the nature from whence they have their denomination. And yet I will not deny, but that such perfect Elements may be found in some very little quantities, in mixed bodies: and the greatest abundance of them, in these four known bodies that we call in ordinary practice, by the names of the pure ones: for they are least compounded, and approach most to the simpleness of the Elements. But to determine absolutely their existence, or not existence, either in bulk or in little parts; dependeth of the manner of action among bodies: which as yet we have not meddled with.   

THE FIFTH CHAPTER. Of the Operations of the Elements in general. And of their Activities compared with one another.  

1 The first operation of the Elements is division, out of which resulteth local motion.  HAVING by our former discourse, inquired out what degrees and proportions of rarity and density compounded with gravity, are necessary for the production of the Elements, and first qualities; whose combinations, frame the Elements: our next consideration, in that orderly progress we have proposed unto ourselves in this treatise (wherein our aim is, to follow successively the steps, which nature hath printed out unto us) will be to examine the operations of the Elements, by which they work upon one an other. To which end, let us propose to ourselves: a rare and a dense body encountering one an other by the impulse of some exterior agent. In this case, it is evident, that since rarity implieth a greater proportion of Quantity, and quantity is nothing but divisibility, rare bodies must needs be more divisible than dense ones: and consequently, when two such bodies are pressed one against an other; the rare body not being able to resist division so strongly, as the dense one is; and being not permitted to retire back, by reason of the extern violence impelling it against the dense body; it followeth, that the parts of the rare body must be severed, to let the dense one come between them: and so the rare body becometh divided, and the dense body the divider. And by this we see that the notions of divider and divisible, do immediately follow rare and dense bodies; and do so much the more properly agree unto them, as they exceed in the qualities of Rarity and Density.  
Likewise, we are to observe in our case, that the dense or dividing body must necessarily cut and enter further and further into the rare or divided body; and so the sides of it be joined successively to new and new parts of the rare body that giveth way unto it, and forsake others it parteth from. Now the rare body being in a determinate situation of the universe, (which we call being in a place, and is a necessary condition belonging to all particular bodies) and the dense body coming to be within the rare body, whereas formerly it was not so: it followeth, that it looseth the place it had, and gaineth an other. This effect, is that which we call local motion.  
And thus we see, 
2 What place is both notionally, and really.  by explicating the manner of this action, that local motion is nothing else, but the change of that respect or relation, which the body moved hath to the rest of the universe, following out of Division: and the name of local motion, formally signifieth only the mutation of a respect to other extrinsecall bodies, subsequent to that division. And this is so evident and agreeable to the notions that all mankind (who, as we have said, is judge and master of language) naturally frameth of place; as I wonder much why any will labour to give other artificial and intricate doctrine of this that in itself is so plain and clear. What need is there to introduce an imaginary space (or with joannes Grammaticus, a subsistent quantity) that must run through all the world; and then entail to every body an eyrie entity, an unconceivable mood, an unintelligible Vbi, that by an intrinsical relation to such a part of the imaginary space, must thereunto pin and fasten the body it is in? It must needs be a ruinous Philosophy that is grounded upon such a contradiction, as is the allotting of parts unto that, which the authors themselves (upon the matter) acknowledge to be merely nothing; and upon so weak a shift, (to deliver them from the inconueniencies that in their course of doctrine other circumstances bring them unto) as is the voluntary creating of new imaginary Entities in things, without any ground in nature for them. Learned men should express the advantage and subtlety of their wits, by penetrating further into nature, than the vulgar; not, by vexing and wresting it from its own course. They should refine, and carry higher; not contradict and destroy the notions of mankind, in those things that it is the competent judge of: as it undoubtedly is, of those primary notions which Aristotle hath ranked under ten heads: which (as we have touched before) every body can conceive in gross: and the work of scholars, is to explicate them in particular; and not to make the vulgar believe they are mistaken, in framing those apprehensions that nature taught them.  
Out of that which hath been hitherto resolved it is manifest, that place really and abstracting from the operation of the understanding, is nothing else but the inward superficies of a body that compasseth and immediately containeth an other. Which ordinarily, being of a rare body that doth not show itself unto us (namely, the air) is for the most part unknown by us. But because nothing can make impression upon our mind, and cause us to give it a name; otherwise then by being known: therefore our understanding to make a complete notion, must add something else to this fleeting and unremarkable superficies that may bring it unto our acquaintance. And for this end we may consider further, that as this superficies hath in itself, so the body enclosed in it gaineth, a certain determinate respect unto the stable and immoovable bodies that environ it. As for example, we understand such a tree to be in such a place, by having such and such respects to such a hill near it, or to such a house that standeth by it, or to such a river that runneth under it, or to such an immoovable point of the heaven that from the sun's rising in the aequinox is called east, and such like. To which purpose, it importeth not whether these, that we call immoovable bodies and points, be truly so, or do but seem so to mankind. For man talking of things according to the notions he frameth of them in his mind, (speech, being nothing else but an expression to an other man, of the images he hath within himself) and his notions being made according to the seeming of the things; he must needs make the same notions, whether the things be truly so in themselves, or but seem to be so, when that seeming or appearance is always constantly the same.  

3 Local motion is that division, whereby a body changeth its place.  Now then, when one body dividing an other, getteth a new immediate clothing; and consequently, new respects to the stable and immoovable bodies (or seeming such) that environ it; we do vary in ourselves the notion we first had of that thing; conceiving it now accompanied with other circumstances and other respects then formerly it had. Which notion we express by saying, it hath changed its place; and is now no longer where it was at the first. And this change of place, we call Local motion: to wit, the departing of a body from that hollow superficies which enclosed it; and its changing unto an other; whereby it gaineth new respects to those parts of the world that have, or in some sort may seem to have, immobility and fixed stableness. So as hence it is evident that the substance of local motion consisteth in division; and that the alteration of Locality followeth division; in such sort as becoming like or unlike of one wall to an other, followeth the action whereby one of them becometh white.  

4 The nature of quantity of itself is sufficient to unite a body to its place.  And therefore in nature we are not to seek for any entity or special cause of applying the moved body to a place as place, (which is but a respect consequent to the effect of division) but only to consider what real and physical action uniteth it to that other body, which is called its place, and truly serveth for that effect. And consequently, they who think they have discovered a notable subtlety by bringing in an Entity to unite a body to its place, have strained beyond their strength, and have grasped but a shadow. Which will appear yet more evident, if they but mark well how nothing is divisible, but what of itself (abstracting from division) is one. For the nature of division, is the making of many; which implieth, that what is to be divided, must of necessity be not many before it be divided. Now quantity being the subject of division, it is evident that purely of itself, and without any force or adjoined helps, it must needs be one, wheresoever some outward agent doth not introduce multiplicity upon it. And whensoever other things work upon quantity as quantity, it is not the nature and power of their operation, to produce unity in it and make it one; for it is already one: but chose, the immediate necessary effect that floweth from them in this case, is to make one quantity many, according to the circumstances that accompany the divider, and that which is to be divided. And therefore, although we may seek causes why some one thing sticketh faster together than some other, yet to ask absolutely why a body sticketh together, were prejudicial to the nature of quantity; whose essence is, to have parts sticking together, or rather, to have such unity, as without it, all divisibility must be excluded.  
Out of which discourse it followeth, that in local motion we are to look only for a cause or power to divide, but not for any to unite. For the very nature of quantity uniteth any two parts that are indistant from one an other, without needing any other cement to glue them together: as we see the parts of water and all liquid substances, do presently unite themselves to other parts of like bodies, when they meet with them, and to solid bodies if they chance to be next unto them. And therefore it is vain to trouble our heads with Unions and imaginary Moods to unite a body to the place it is in, when their own nature maketh them one as soon as they are immediate to each other. And accordingly, if when we see a bowl move, we would examine the causes of that motion, we must consider the quantity of air or water it maketh to break from the parts next unto it, to give place unto itself: and not speculate upon an intrinsical relation from the body to a certain part of the imaginary space they will have to run through all things. And by balancing that quantity of air or water which it divideth, we may arrive to make an estimate of what force the bowl needeth to have for its motion.  
Thus having declared that the locality of motion, 
5 All operations amongst bodies, are either local motion, or such as follow out of local motion.  is but an extrinsecall denomination, and no reality in the thing moved; we may now cast an eye upon a vast consequence that may be deduced out of what we have hitherto said. For if we consider the nature of a body, that is, that a body is a body by quantity; and that the formal notion of quantity is nothing else but divisibility; and that the adequate act of divisibility, is division: it is evident, there can be no other operation upon quantity, nor (by consequence) among bodies, but must either be such division, as we have here explicated, or what must necessarily follow out of such division. And division, (as we have even now explicated) being local motion; it is evident, that all operations among bodies, are either local motion, or such as follow out of local motion. Which conclusion, howsoever unexpected, and may at the first hearing appear a Paradox; will nevertheless by the ensuing work receive such evidence, as it can not be doubted of; and that, not only by force of argumentation and by necessity of notions (as is already deduced) but also by experience, and by declaration of particulars as they shall occur.  

6 Earth compared to water in activity.  But now to apply what we have said, to our proposed subject: it is obvious to every man, that seeing the divider is the agent in division and in local motion; and that dense bodies, are by their nature dividers; the earth, must in that regard be the most active among the Elements, since it is the most dense of them all. But this seemeth to be against the common judgement of all the searchers of nature; who unanimously agree that fire is the most active Element. As also, it seemeth to impugn what we ourselves have determined, when we said, there were two active qualities, heat and cold, whereof the first was in its greatest excess in fire, and the latter in water.  
To reconcile these, we are to consider that the action of cold in its greatest height, is composed of two parts; the one is a kind of pressing; and the other, is penetration which requireth applicability. Of which two, the former ariseth out of density, but the latter, out of moderation of density, as I have declared in the precedent Chapter. Wherefore the former will exceed more in earth; 
§▪ 6.  though the whole be more eminent in water. For though considering only the force of moving (which is a more simple and abstracted notion, than the determination and particularisation of the Elements, and is precedent to it) therein earth hath a precedency over water: yet taking the action as it is determined to be the action of a particular Element, and as it concurreth to the composition or dissolution of mixed bodies; in that consideration (which is the chief work of Elements, and requireth an intime application of the Agents) water hath the principality and excess over earth.  

7 The manner whereby fire getteth into fuel: proveth that it exc●edeth earth in activity.  As for fire it is more active then either of them; as it will appear clearly if we consider, how when fire is applied to fuel, and the violence of blowing is added to its own motion; it incorporateth itself with the fuel, and in a small time converteth a great part of it into its own nature, and shattereth the rest into smoke and ashes. All which proceedeth from the exceeding smallness and dryness of the parts of fire; which being moved with violence against the fuel, and thronging in multitudes upon it; they easily pierce the porous substance of it, like so many extreme sharp needles.  
And that the force of fire is as great and greater, then of earth, we may gather out of our former discourse; where having resolved, that density is the virtue by which a body is moved and doth cut the medium; and again considering that celerity of motion, is a kind of density, (as we shall by and by declare) it is evident, that since blowing must of necessity press violently and with a rapide motion, the parts of fire against the fuel, and so condense them exceedingly there, (both by their celerity, and by bringing very many parts together there;) it must needs also give them activity and virtue to pierce the body they are beaten against.  
Now, that celerity is a kind of density, will appear by comparing their natures. For if we consider that a dense body may be dilated so as to possess and fill the place of a rare body that exceeded it in bigness; and by that dilatation, may be divided into as many and as great parts as the rare body was divisible into; we may conceive that the substance of those parts, was by a secret power of nature folded up in that little extension in which it was before. And even so, if we reflect upon two rivers of equal channels and depths, whereof the one goeth swifter than the other; and determine a certain length of each channel, and a common measure of time: we shall see that in the same measure of time, there passeth a greater bulk of water in the designed part of the channel of the swifter stream, then in the designed part of the slower, though those parts be equal.  
Neither doth it import, that in velocity we take a part of time, whereas in density it seemeth that an instant is sufficient; and consequently, there would be no proportion between them. For knowing Philosophers do all agree that there are no instants in time, and that the apprehension of them proceedeth merely from the manner of our understanding. And as for parts in time, there can not be assumed any so little, in which the comparison is not true: and so in this regard, it is absolutely good.  
And if the Reader have difficulty at the disparity of the things which are pressed together in density and in celerity; for that in density there is only substance, and in celerity there is also quantity, crowded up with the substance; he will soon receive satisfaction, when he shall consider that this disparity is to the advantage of what we say, and maketh the nature of density more perfect in celerity, and consequently more powerful in fire then in earth. Besides, if there were no disparity, 
8 The same is proved by the manner, whereby fire cometh out of fuel and worketh upon other bodies.  it would not be a distinct species of density, but the very same.  
By what we have spoken above, it appeareth how fire getteth into fuel; now let us consider how it cometh out: for the activity of that fierce body, will not let it lie still and rest, as long as it hath so many enemies round about it to rouse it up. We see then that as soon as it hath incorporated itself with the fuel, and is grown master of it by introducing into it so many of its own parts, (like so many soldiers, into an enemy's town) they break out again on every side with as much violence as they came in. For by reason of the former resistance of the fuel; their continual streaming of new parts upon it, and one overtaking an other there where their journey was stopped, (all which is increased by the blowing,) doth so exceedingly condense them into a narrower room than their nature affecteth, that as soon as they get liberty, and grow masters of the fuel, (which at the first was their prison) they enlarge their place, and consequently come out and fly abroad; ever aiming right forwardly from the point where they begin their journey: for the violence wherewith they seek to extend themselves into a larger room, when they have liberty to do so; will admit no motion but the shortest, which is, by a strait line.  
So that if in our fantasy, we frame an image of a round body all of fire; we must withal presently conceive, that the flame proceeding from it, would diffuse itself every way indifferently in strait lines; in such sort, that the source serving for the centre, there would be round about it an huge sphere of fire and of light; unless some accidental and extern cause, should determine its motion more to one part then to an other. Which compass, because it is round, and hath the figure of a sphere, is by Philosophers termed the sphere of its activity.  
So that it is evident, that the most simple and primary motion of fire, is a flux in a direct line from the centre of it, to its circumference, taking the fuel for its centre: as also, that when, it is beaten against a harder body, it may be able to destroy it, although that body be in its own nature, more dense than fire. For the body against which it presseth; either hath pores, or hath none, (as, the Elements have none:) if it hath pores; then the fire, by reason of the violent motion of the impellent, driveth out the little bodies which fill up those pores, and succeeding in their room, and being multiplied there, causeth those effects which in our discourse of the Elemenrs we assigned to heat. But if it have no pores; it will be either rare or dense: if it be rare; then, in case that the force of the impellent be greater than the resistance of the rare body, it will force the fire to divide the rare body. But if it be dense; as, some atom of earth; then, though at the first it can not divide it; yet by length of time and by continual beating upon it, it may come to wear off some part of it, the force of the impellent, by little and little bending the atom of the earth, by driving a continual stream of a lesser part of fire, against some determinate part of the atom. By which word Atom; no body will imagine we intent to express a perfect indivisible, but only, the least sort of natural bodies.   

THE sixth CHAPTER. Of Light: what it is.  
HAVING said thus much of fire; 
1 In what sense the Author rejecteth qualities.  the near relation that is between it and light, inviteth us in the next place to bend our eyes to that which useth to dazzle theirs who look unwarily upon it. Certainly, as among all the sensible qualities, it is the principal; so among all corporeal things, it seemeth to aim rightest at a spiritual nature, and to come nearest unto it. And by some hath been judged to be spiritual; if our eyes be capable to see spirits. No meaner man than Aristotle, leadeth the dance to hold light a quality, and mainly to deny it any bodily subsistence. And there hath followed him no fewer, than almost all the world ever since. And the question importeth no less, than the whole doctrine of qualities; for admit light to be a body, and hardly any man will hold up his hand in defence of any other quality: but if it be a quality; then all others come in by parity and for company.  
But before we go any further, it will not be amiss to express what we mean when we reject qualities; and how, in some sense, we are content to admit them. According to that description that Philosophers ordinarily do make of them, (and especially the modern) we can by no means give way unto them. I confess ingenuously, I understand not what they mean by them; and I am confident, that neither do they. For the very notion, that their first words seem to express of them, they contradict again, before they make an end of describing what they are. They will have them to be real Entities or Things, distinct from the bodies they accompany: and yet, they deny them a subsistence or self being; saying they do but inhere in their subject, which supporteth them; or which is all one, that their being is a dependence of a subject.  
If they will reflect upon what they say, and make their thoughts and their words agree; they will find, that the first part of their description, maketh them complete substances; which afterwards, in words they flattely deny: and it is impossible to reconcile these two meanings. A real Entity or thing, must necessarily have an Existence or Being of its own: which they allow them. And whatsoever hath so; becometh a substance: for it subsisteth by its own Existence; or, (to say plainer) is what it is by its own Being; and needeth not the existence of an other thing to give it a Being. And then presently to say that it doth not subsist of itself; or that it requireth the subsistence of a substance, to make it Be; is a pure contradiction to the former.  
This ariseth from a wrong notion they make to themselves of substance, existence and subsistence: and from their not consulting sufficiently with their own thoughts, as well as studying in books. They meet there with different terms; by help of which, they keep themselves from contradiction in words, but not in effect. If the terms were rightly conceived, and notions duly fitted to them, (which requireth deep meditation upon the things themselves, and a brain free from all inclination to siding, or affection to opinions for the author's sakes, before they be well understood and examined) many of those disputes would fall to the ground, in which oftentimes both sides lose themselves, and the question, before they come to an end. They are in the dark before they are aware: and then, they make a noise, only with terms; which like too heavy weapons that they can not wield, do carry their strokes beyond their aim. Of such nature, are the qualities and moods, that some modern Philosophers have so subtilised upon. And in that sense, we utterly deny them: which being a question appertaining to Metaphysics, it belongeth not to our present purpose to engage ourselves further in it.  

2 In what sense the Author doth admit of qualities.  But, as they are ordinarily understood in common conversation, we allow them. And our work is but to explicate and show the particulars in retail, of what men naturally speak in gross. For that, serveth their turn to know what one an other meaneth: whereas, it belongeth only unto a Philosopher, to examine the causes of things. Others, are content with the effects: and they speak truly and properly when they design them. As for example: when they say that fire burneth by a quality of heat that it hath, or that a die is square by the quality of a cubical figure that is in it; they speak as they should do. But if others will take occasion upon this, to let their understanding give a Being unto these qualities, distinct from the substances in which they conceive them; there they miss. If we consider the same man hungry, or thirsty, or weary, or sleepy, or standing, or sitting; the understanding presently maketh within itself, real things of sleep, hunger, thirst, weariness, standing, and sitting. Whereas indeed, they are but different affections or situations of the same body. And therefore we must beware of applying these notions of our mind, to the things as they are in themselves: as much as we must, of conceiving those parts to be actually in a continued quantity, whereof we can frame actually distinct notions in our understanding. But as, when ordinary men say, that a yard containeth three feet; it is true in this sense, that three feet may be made of it; but that whiles it is a yard, it is but one quantity or thing, and not three things: so, they who make profession to examine rigorously the meaning of words, must explicate in what sense it is true that heat and figure (our former examples) are qualities: for such we grant them to be; and in no wise do contradict the common manner of speech; which entereth not into the Philosophical nature of them.  
We say then, that qualities are nothing else but the proprieties, or particularities wherein one thing differeth from an other. And therefore Logicians, call substantial differences, substantial qualities: and say, they are praedicate in Quale quid. But the Predicament of Quality, is ordered by Aristotle to conclude in it those differences of things, which are neither substantial nor quantitative, and yet are intrinsecall and absolute. And so, that which the understanding calleth heat, and maketh a notion of, distinct from the notion of the fire from whence it issueth to burn the wood that is near it; is nothing else, in the fire, but the very substance of it in such a degree of rarity; or a continual stream of parts issuing out of the main stock of the same fire, that entereth into the wood, and by the rarity of it maketh its way through every little part, and divideth them. All which actions, are comprised by the understanding, under one notion of burning: and the power, (which is fire itself) to do these actions, under one notion of the quality of heat: though burning in effect, and explicated Philosophically, be nothing else but the continuance of those material motions we have even now described. In like manner, the cubical figure of a die, is nothing else but the very body of the die itself, limited by other bodies from being extended beyond those dimensions it hath: and so the quality of figure or squareness, which in common speech is said to be in it; is truly, the substance itself, under such a consideration as is expressed by that word.  
But to come to our question, 
3 Five arguments proposed to prove that light is not a body.  upon the decision of which dependeth the fate of all the fictitious Entities, which in the schools are termed qualities. The chief motives that persuade light to be one of those; may, to my best remembrance, be reduced to five several heads. The first is, that it illuminateth the air in an instant, and therefore, can not be a body: for a body requirreth succession of time to move in: whereas, this seemeth to spread itself, over the whole hemisphere in an instant; for as far as the sun is distant from us, he no sooner raiseth his head above our horizon, but his darts are in our face: and generally, no imagination can be framed, of any motion it hath in its dilatation.  
The next is; that whereas no body can admit an other into its place, without being removed away itself, to leave that room unto the advenient one; nevertheless, plain experience showeth us daily, that two lights may be in the same place; and the first is so far from going away at the coming of the second, that the bringing in of a second candle, and setting it near the first, increaseth the light in the room; which diminisheth again when the second is removed away. And by the same reason; if light were a body, it should drive away the air (which is likewise a body) wheresoever it is admitted: for within the whole sphere of the irradiation of it, there is no point wherein one may set their eye, but light is found. And therefore; if it were a body, there would be no room for air in that place which light taketh up. And likewise, we see that it penetrateth all solid bodies, (and particularly glass,) as experience showeth, in wood, stone, metals, and any other body whatsoever, if it be made thin enough.  
The third argument, why light can not be a body, is, that if it were so, it can be none other but fire, which is the subtlest, and most rarifyed of all bodies whatsoever. But if it be fire, than it can not be without heat: and consequently, a man could not feel cold in a sunne-shining day. The contrary of which is apparent all winter long; whose brighest days oftentimes prove the coldest. And Galilaeus with divers others since, did use from the sun to gather light in a kind of stone that is found in Italy (which is therefore by them called, la calamita della luce) and yet no heat appeared in it. A glow worm will give light to read by, but not to warm you any whitt at all. And it is said, that diamonds and carbuncles will shine like fire in the greatest darks; yet no man ever complained of being served by them, as the foolish Satire was by kissing of a burning coal. On the contrary side; if one consider how great heats may be made without any light at all, how can one be persuaded that light and heat should be the same thing, or indeed any whitt of kin?  
The fourth motive to induce us to believe that light can not be a body; is the sudden extinction of it, when any solid body cometh between the fountain of it, and the place where he sendeth his beams. What becometh of that great expansion of light that shined all about, when a cloud interposeth itself between the body of the sun and the streams that come from it? Or when it leaveth our horizon to light the other world? His head is no sooner out of our sight; but at the instant all his beams are vanished. If that which filleth so vast a room were a body, some thing would become of it: it would at least be changed to some other substance; and some relics would be left of it; as when ashes remain of burned bodies: for nature admitteth not the annihilation of any thing.  
And in the last place; we may conceive that if light were a body, it would be shaken by the winds, and by the motion of the air; and we should see it quaver in all blustering weather. Therefore, summing up all we have said; it seemeth most improbable, and indeed wholly impossible, that light should be a body; and consequently, must have his place among qualities.  

4 The two first reasons to prove light to be a body are, the resemblance it hath with fire; and because if it were a quality, it would always produce an equal to itself.  But on the other side; before we apply ourselves to answer these objections, let us take a short survey of those inducements, that prevail with us to believe light a body, notwithstanding so forcible oppositions. I admit so far of the third argument, as to allow light to be fire: for indeed it can not be imagined to be anything else; all properties agreeing so fully between them. But withal I must add; that it is not fire in every form, or fire joined with every substance, that expresseth itself by light; but it is fire extremely dilated, and without mixture of any other gross body. Let me hold a piece of linen or paper, close by the flame of a candle, and by little, and little remove it further and further of; and me thinks my very eyes tell me, that there is upon the paper some part of that which I see in the candle; and that it groweth still less and less like as I remove the paper further from it: so that, if I would believe my sense; I should believe it as very a body upon the paper, as in the candle; though enfeebled, by the laxity of the channel in which it floweth.  
And this seemeth to be strengthened, by the consideration of the adversary's position: for if it were a quality; then, seeing it hath no contrary to destroy or stop it, it should still produce an equal to itself, without end or growing feeble, whensoever it meeteth with a subject capable to entertain it, as air is.  
The better to apprehend how much this faint resemblance of flame upon the paper, 
5 The third reason; because if we imagine to ourselves the substance of fire to be rarifyed, it will have the same appearances which light hath.  maketh for our purpose; let us turn the leaf, and imagine in our own thoughts, after what fashion that fire which is in the flame of a little candle, would appear unto us, if it were dilated and stretched out to the utmost extent, that excess of rarity can bring it unto. Suppose that so much flame, as would fill a cone of two inches height and half an inch diameter should suffer so great an expansion as to replenish with his light body a large chamber: and then, what can we imagine it would seem to be? How would the continual driving it into a thinner substance, as it streameth in a perpetual flood from the flame, seem to play upon the paper? And then judge whether it be likely to be a body or no, when our discourse suggesteth unto us, that if it be a body, those very appearances must follow, which our eyes give us evidence are so in effect. If gold beaten into so eyrie a thinnenesse as we see guilders use, doth remain still gold notwithstanding the wonderful expansion of it: why shall we not allow, that fire dilated to his utmost period, shall still remain fire; though extremely rarifyed beyond what is was?  
We know that fire is the rarest and the subtlest substance that nature hath made among bodies; 
6 The fourth reason, from the manner of the generation and corruption of light, which agreeth with fire.  and we know likewise, that it is engendered by the destroying and feeding upon some other more gross body: let us then calculate, when the oil, or tallow, or wax of a candle, or the bulk of a fagott or billet, is dilated and rarifyed to the degree of fire; how vast a place must it take up?  
To this let us add what Aristotle teacheth us; that fire is not like a standing pool, which continueth full with the same water; and as it hath no waist, so hath it no supply: but it is a fluent and brookelike current. Which also we may learn, out of the perpetual nutriment it requireth: for a new part of fuel, being converted into a new part of fire (as we may observe, in the little atoms of oil, or melted wax, that continually ascend apace up the week of a burning candle or lamp) of necessity the former must be gone to make room for the latter; and so, a new part of the river is continually flowing.  
Now then, this perpetual flux of fire, being made of a gross body that so rarifyed will take up such a vast room; if it die not at the instant of its birth, but have some time to subsist (be it never so short,) it must needs run some distance from the fountain whence it springeth. Which if it do; you need not wonder, that there should be so great an extent of fire as is requisite to fill all that space which light replenisheth; nor, that it should be still supplied with new, as fast as the cold of the air killeth it: for considering that flame is a much grosser substance then pure fire, (by reason of the mixture with it, of that viscous oily matter, which being drawn out of the wood and candle, serveth for fuel to the fire, and is by little and little converted into it;) and with all reflecting upon the nature and motion of fire, (which is, to dilate itself extremely, and to fly all about from the centre to the circumference;) you can not choose but conceive, that the pure fire struggling to break away from the oily fuel (which is still turning into new fire) doth at length free his wings from that birdlime, and then flieth abroad with extreme swiftness, and swelleth and dilateth itself to a huge bulk, now that it hath gotten liberty; and so filleth a vast room; but remaineth still fire till it die: which it no sooner doth, but it is still supplied with new streams of it, that are continually strained, and as it were squeezed, out of the thick flame, which did imprison it, and kept it within it; till growing fuller of fire than it could contain (by reason of the continual attenuating the oily parts of it, and converting them into fire) it giveth liberty unto those parts of fire, that are next the superficies, to fly whither their nature will carry them.  
And thus, discourse would inform a blind man (after he hath well reflected on the nature of fire) how it must needs fill a mighty extent of place; though it have but a narrow beginning at the springhead of it: and that there, by reason of the condensation of it, and mixture with a grosser body, it must needs burn other bodies: but that when it is freed from such mixture, and suffereth an extreme expansion, it can not have force to burn, but may have means to express itself to be there present by some operation of it upon some body that is refined and subtilised enough to perceive it. And this operation, a seeing man, will tell you is done upon his eyes, (whose fittenesse to receive impression from so subtle an Agent, Anatomists will teach you.) And I remember, how a blind schoolmaster that I kept in my house to teach my children, (who had extreme subtle spirits, and a great tenderness through his whole body; and met with few distractions, to hinder him from observing any impression, never so nicely made upon him) used often to tell me, that he felt it very perceptibly in several parts of his body; but especially in his brain.  
But to settle us more firmly in the persuasion of light his being a body (and consequently fire; 
7 The fifth reason; because such properties belong to light as agree only unto bodies. ) let us consider that the properties of a body, are perpetually incident to light; look what rules a ball will keep in its reboundes; the same, doth light in its reflections: and the same demonstration, doth alike convince the one and the other. Besides, light is broken like a body; as when it is snapped in pieces by a tougher body. It is gathered together into a little room, by looking or burning glasses; as water is, by ordering the gutters of a house so as to bring into one cistern, all that raineth dispersedly upon the whole roof. It is severed and dispersed by other glasses; and is to be wrought upon, and cast hither and thither, at pleasure; all, by the rule of other bodies. And what is done in light, the same will likewise be done in heat, in cold, in wind, and in sound. And the very same instruments, that are made for light; will work their effects in all these others, if they be duly managed.  
So that certainly, were it not for the authority of Aristotle and of his learned followers, that presseth us on the one side; and for the seemingness of those reasons we have already mentioned, which persuadeth us on the other side; our very eyes would carry us by stream into this consent, that light is no other thing but the nature and substance of fire, spread far and wide, and freed from the mixture of all other gross bodies. Which will appear yet more evident in the solutions of the oppositions we have brought against our own opinion: for in them there will occur other arguments of no less importance to prove this verity, than these we have already proposed.   

THE SEVENTH CHAPTER. Two objections answered against light being fire; with a more ample proof of its being such.  
HAVING then said thus much to persuade us of the corporeity of this subtle thing, 
1 That all light is hot and apt to heat.  that so quaintly playeth with our eyes: we will in the next place examine those objections that at the beginning we did set down against its being a body: and if after a through discussion of them, we find they do in truth conclude nothing of what at the first sight they bear so great a show of; but that we shall be able, perfectly to solve and enerue their force; no body will think it rashness in us to crave leave of Aristotle that we may descent from him in a matter that he hath not looked to the bottom of; and whose opinion therein, can not be defended from plain contradictions and impossibilities. It is true, never any one man looked so far as he into the bowels of nature; he may rightly be termed the Gemus of it; and whosoever followeth his principles in the main, can not be led into error: but we must not believe, that he, or any man else that relieth upon the strength and negotiation of his own reason, ever had a privilege of infallibility entailed to all he said. Let us then admire him for what he hath delivered us: and where he falleth short, or is weary in his search, and suffereth himself to be borne down by popular opinions against his own principles (which happeneth very seldom to him) let us seek to supply and relieve him.  
But to pursue our intent: we will begin with answering the third objection; which is, that if light were fire, it must heat as well as enlighten where it shineth. There is no doubt but it doth so: as is evident by the weather glasses, and other artificial musical instruments (as organs and virginals that played by themselves) which Cornelius Drebbel (that admirable master of mechanikes) made to show the king. All which, depended upon the rarefaction and condensation of some subtle body, conserved in a cavity within the bulk of the whole instrument: for as soon as the sun shined, they would have motion and play their parts. And there is no doubt but that grew out of the rarefaction of the subtle liquor he made use of, which was dilated, as soon as the air was warmed by the sun beams. Of whose operation, it was so sensible, that they no sooner left the horizon, but its motion ceased. And if but a cloud came between the instrument and them, the music would presently go slower time. And the ancient miracle of Memnon's statue, seemeth to be a juggling of the Aehiopian Priests, made by the like invention.  

2 The reason why our bodies for the most part do not feel the heat of pure light.  But though he and they found some spiritual and refined matter, that would receive such notable impressions, from so small alterations of temper. Yet it is no wonder that our gross bodies are not sensible of them, for we can not feel heat, unless it be greater than that which is in our sense. And the heat there, must be in proportion to the heat of our blood: which is in a high degree of warmeth. And therefore it is very possible that an exceeding rarifyed fire, may cause a far less impression of heat than we are able to feel. Consider, how if you set pure spirit of wine on fire, and so convert it into actual flame; yet it will not burn, nor scarce warm your hand: and then, can you expect, that the light of a candle, which filleth a great room, should burn or warm you as far as it shineth?  
If you would exactly know what degree of heat, and power of burning, that light hath, which (for example) shineth upon the wall in a great chamber, in the midst whereof there standeth a candle: do but calculate, what overproportion of quantity all the light in the whole room beareth, to the quantity of the little flame at the top of the candle; and that is the overproportion of the force of burning which is in the candle, to the force of burning which is in so much light at the wall as in extension is equal to the flame of the candle. Which when you have considered you will not quarrel att it's not warming you at that distance; although you grant it to be fire, streaming out from the flame as from the spring that feedeth it, and extremely dilated (according to the nature of fire, when it is at liberty) by going so far, without any other gross body to imprison or clog it.  
It is manifest, that this rule of examining the proportion of burning in so much of the light, as the flame is, (by calculating the proportion of the quantity or extension of all the light in the room to the extension of the flame of the candle, and then comparing the flame of the candle, to a part of light equal in extension unto it) is a good and infallible one, if we abstract from accidental inequalities: since, both the light and the flame, are in a perpetual flux; and all the light, was first in the flame; which is the spring, from whence it continually floweth. As in a river wherein every part runneth with a settled stream; though one place be straighter, and an other broader; yet of necessity, since all the water that is in the broad place came out of the narrow; it must follow that in equal portions of time there is no more water, where it hath the liberty of a large channel, then where the banks press it into a narrower bed, so that there be no inequalities in the bottom.  
In like manner, if in a large stove, a basin of water be converted into steam; that rarifyed water which then filleth the whole stove, is no more than what the basin contained before: and consequently, the power of moistening which is in a feet extension (for example) of the stove wherein that steam is, must be in proportion to the virtue of wetting in the feet extension of water; as the quantity of that great room which the steam filleth, is to the quantity of the water contained in the basin: for although the rarifyed water be not in every least part of that great place it seemeth to take up; by reason that there is air, in which it must swim. Yet the power of wetting that was in the basin of water, is dilated through the whole room, by the conjunction of the mist or dew to all the sensible parts of the air that is in the room: and consequently the power of wetting, which is in any foot of that room, is in a manner as much less than the power of wetting which was in the foot of water, as if the water were rarifyed to the quantity of the whole room, and no air were left with it.  
And in the same manner, it fareth with dilated fire, as it doth with dilated water: with only this difference peradventure that fire groweth purer, and more towards its own nature by dilatation; whereas water becometh more mixed and is carried from its nature by suffering the like effect. Yet dilated water will in proportion moisten more then dilated fire will burn: for the rarefaction of water, bringeth it nearer to the nature of air (whose chief propriety is moisture,) and the fire that accompanieth it when it raiseth it into steam, giveth it more powerful ingression into what body it meeteth withal: whereas fire, when it is very pure, and at entire liberty to stretch and spread itself as wide as the nature of it will carry it getteth no advantage of burning by its mixture with air: and although it gaineth force by its purity, yet by reason of its extreme rarefaction it must needs be extremely faint. But if by the help of glasses, you will gather into less room that which is diffused into a great one; and so condense it as much as it is (for example) in the flame of a candle; then that fire, or compacted light, will burn much more forcibly than so much flame: for there is as much of it in quantity (excepting what is lost in the carriage of it;) and it is held in together in as little room; and it hath this advantage besides, that it is clogged with no gross body to hinder the activity of it.  

3 The experience of burning-glasses, and of sultry gloomy weather prove light to be fire.  It seemeth to me now, that the very answering this objection, doth (besides repelling the force of it) evidently prove that light is nothing but fire in his own nature, and exceedingly dilated: for if you suppose fire, (for example, the flame of a candle) to be stretched out to the utmost expansion that you may well imagine such a gross body is capable of; it is impossible it should appear and work otherwise, than it doth in light as I have showed above. And again, we see plainly, that light gathered together burneth more forcibly than any other fire whatsoever, and therefore must needs be fire.  
Why then shall we not confidently conclude, that what is fire before it getteth abroad, and is fire again when it cometh together, doth likewise remain fire during all its journey? Nay even in the journey itself, we have particular testimony that it is fire: for light returning back from the earth charged with little atoms (as it doth in sultry gloomy weather) heateth much more than before; just as fire doth, when it is imprisoned in a dense body.  

4 Philosopher's ought not to judge of things by the rules of vulgar people.  Philosopher's ought not to judge by the same rules that the common people doth. Their gross sense, is all their guide: and therefore they can not apprehend any thing to be fire, that doth not make itself be known for such by burning them. But he that judiciously examineth the matter; and traceth the pedigree and period of it; and seeth the reason why in some circumstances it burneth, and in others it doth not; is too blame, if he suffer himself to be led by others ignorance, contrary to his own reason. When they that are curious in perfumes, will have their chamber filled with a good sent in a hot season, that agreeth not with burning perfumes, and therefore make some odoriferous water be blown about it by their servant's mouths that are dexterous in that Ministry, (as is used in Spain in the summer time;) every one that seeth it done, though on a sudden the water be lost to his eyes and touch, and is only discernible by his nose; yet he is well satisfied that the sent which recreateth him, is the very water he saw in the glass extremely dilated by the forcible sprouting of it out from the servant's mouth, and will by little and little fall down and become again palpable water as it was before; and therefore doubteth not but it is still water whiles it hangeth in the air divided into little atoms. Whereas one that saw not the beginning of this operation by water, nor observed how in the end it showeth itself again in water; might the better be excused, if he should not think that what he smelled were water blown about the air, nor any substance of itself (because he neither seeth nor handleth it) but some adventitious quality he knoweth not how adhering to the air. The like difference is between Philosophers that proceed orderly in their discourses, and others that pay themselves with terms which they understand not. The one, see evidence in what they conclude; whiles the others guess wildly at random.  
I hope the Reader will not deem it time lost from our main drift, which we take up thus in examples and digressions: 
5 The different names of light and fire proceed from different notions of the same substance.  for if I be not much deceived, they serve exceedingly to illustrate the matter: which I hope I have now rendered so plain, as no man that shall have well weighed it, will expect that fire dilated into that rarifyed substance which mankind (who according to the different appearance of things to their sense, giveth different names unto them) calleth light, should burn like that grosser substance which from doing so they call fire; nor doubt but that they may be the same thing more or less attenuated; as leaf gold, that flieth in the air as light as down, is as truly gold as that in an ingott which being heavier than any other substance falleth most forcibly unto the ground.  
What we have said of the unburning fire (which we call light) streaming from the flame of a candle; may easily be applied to all other lights deprived of sensible heat, whereof some appear with flame, others without it: of the first sort of which, are the innoxious flames that are often seen on the hair of men's heads, and horses manes, on the masts of ships, over graves, and fat marish grounds, and the like: and of the latter sort, are glow worms, and the light conserving stones, rotten wood, some kinds of fish and of flesh when they begin to putrify, and some other things of the like nature.  
Now to answer the second part of this objection, that we daily see great heats without any light, 
6 The reason why many times fire, and heat are deprived of light.  as well as much light without any heat, and therefore light and fire can not be the same thing: you may call to mind, how dense bodies are capable of great quantities of rare ones; and thereby, it cometh to pass that bodies which repugn to the dilatation of flame, may nevertheless have much fire enclosed in them. As in a stove; let the fire be never so great, yet it appeareth not outwardly to the sight, although that stove warm all the rooms near it. So when many little parts of heat are imprisoned in as many little celles of gross earthy substance, (which are like so many little stoves to them) that imprisonment will not hinder them from being very hot to the sense of feeling (which is most perceptible of dense things.) But because they are choked with the closeness of the gross matter wherein they are enclosed, they can not break out into a body of flame or light, so to discover their nature: which (as we have said before) is the most unfit way for burning; for we see that light must be condensed, to produce flame and fire; as flame must be, to burn violently.  

7 What becometh of the body of light, when it dyeth.  Having thus cleared the third objection, (as I conceive;) let us go on to the fourth; which requireth that we satisfy their inquisition, who ask what becometh of that vast body of shining light (if it be a body) that filleth all the distance between heaven and earth; and vanisheth in a moment, as soon as a cloud or the moon interp●seth itself between the sun and us; or that the sun quitteth our hemisphere? No sign at all remaineth of it after the extinction of it, as doth of all other substances; whose destruction, is the birth of some new thing. Whither then is it flown? We may be persuaded that a mist is a corporeal substance, because it turneth to drops of water upon the twigs that it environeth: and so we might believe light to be fire, if after the burning of it out, we found any ashes remaining: but experience assureth us, that after it is extinguished, it leaveth not the least vestigium behind it of having been there.  
Now, before we answer this objection, we will entreat our adversary to call to mind, how we have in our solution of the former, declared and proved that the light which (for example) shineth from à candle, is no more than the flame is, from whence it springeth, the one being condensed, and the other dilated;) and that the flame is in a perpetual flux of consumption about the circumference, and of restauration at the centre, where it sucketh in the fuel: and then, we will inquire of him, what becometh of that body of flame which so continually dyeth and is renewed, and leaveth no remainder behind it; as well as he doth of us, what becometh of our body of light, which in like manner is always dying and always springing fresh? And when he hath well considered it, he will find that one answer will serve for both.  
Which is: that as the fire streameth out from the fountain of it, and groweth more subtle by its dilatation, it sinketh the more easily into those bodies it meeteth withal: the first of which, and that environeth it round about, is air. With air then, it mingleth and incorporateth itself; and by consequence, with the other little bodies that are mingled with the air: and in them, it receiveth the changes which nature worketh; by which, it may be turned into the other Elements, if there be occasion; or be still conserved in bodies that require heat.  
Upon this occasion, 
8 An experiment of some who pretend, that light may be precipitated into powder.  I remember a rare experiment that a noble man of much sincerity, and a singular friend of mine, told me he had seen: which was, that by means of glasses made in a very particular manner, and artificially placed one by an other, he had seen the sun beams gathered together, and precipitated down into a brownish or purplish red powder. There could be no fallacy in this operation: for nothing whatsoever, was in the glasses when they were placed and disposed for this intent: and it must be in the hot time of the year; else the effect would not follow. And of this Magistery, he could gather some days, near two ounces in a day. And it was of a strange volatile nature: and would pierce and imprint his spiritual quality into gold itself (the heaviest and most fixed body we converse withal) in a very short time. If this be plainly so, without any mistaking; then, men's eyes and hands may tell them what becometh of light when it dyeth, if a great deal of it were swept together. But from what cause soever this experience had its effect, our reason may be satisfied with what we have said above: for I confess, for my part, I believe the appearing body might be some thing that came along with the sun beams, and was gathered by them; but not their pure substance.  
Some peradventure will object those lamps, 
9 The Author's opinion concerning lamps, pretended to have been found in tombs, with inconsumptible lights.  which both ancient and modern writers have reported to have been found in tombs and urns, long time before closed up from men's repair unto them to supply them with new fuel: and therefore they believe such fires to feed upon nothing; and consequently, to be inconsumptible and perpetual. Which if they be, than our doctrine that will have light to be nothing but the body of fire perpetually flowing from its centre, and perpetually dying; can not be sound: for in time, such fires would necessarily spend themselves in light: although light be so subtle a substance that an exceeding little quantity of fuel, may be dilated into a vast quantity of light. Yet still there would be some consumption; which how imperceptible soever in a short time, yet after a multitude of revolutions of years, it must needs discover itself.  
To this I answer: that for the most part, the witnesses who testify originally the stories of these lights, are such as a rational man can not expect from them that exactness or nicety of observation, which is requisite for our purpose; for they are usually, gross labouring people, who as they dig the ground for other intentions, do stumble upon these lamps by chance before they are aware: and for the most part, they break them in the finding; and they imagine they see a glimpse of light, which vanisheth before they can in a manner take notice of it; and is peraduanture but the glistering of the broken glass or glazed pot, which reflecteth the outward light as soon as by rummaging in the ground and discovering the glass, the light striketh upon it; (in such manner as some times a diamond by a certain encountering of light in a dusky place, may in the first twincling of the motion, seem to sparkle like fire:) and afterwards, when they show their broken lamp, and tell their tale to some man of a pitch of wit above them, who is curious to inform himself of all the circumstances that may concern such lights; they strain their memory to answer him satisfactorily unto all his demands: and thus, for his sake they persuade themselves to remember what they never saw. And he again on his side, is willing to help out the story a little. And so, after awhile, a very formal and particular relation is made of it. As happeneth in like sort, in reporting of all strange and unusual things: which, even those that in their nature abhor from lying, are naturally apt to strain a little and fashion up in a handsome mould; and almost to persuade themselves they saw more than they did: so innate it is unto every man, to desire the having of some preeminence beyond his neighbours; be it but in pretending to have seen some thing which they have not.  
Therefore, before I engage myself in giving any particular answer to this objection of pretended inconsumptible lights, I would gladly see the effect certainly averred and undoubtedly proved: for, the testimonies which Fortunius Licetus produceth (who hath been very diligent in gathering them, and very subtle in discoursing upon them; and is the exactest author that hath written upon this subject) do not seem unto me to make that certainty, which is required for the establishing of a ground in Philosophy. Nevertheless, if there be any certain experience in this particular, I should think that there might be some art by circulation of fuel, to maintain the same light for a great company of years. But I should not easily be persuaded, that either flame or light could be made without any manner of consuming the body which serveth them for fuel.   

THE EIGHTH CHAPTER. An answer to three other objections formerly proposed, against light being a substance.  
HAVING thus defended ourselves from their objections, 
1 Light is not really in every part of the room it enlighteneth, not filleth entirely any sensible part of it, though it seem to us to do so.  who would not allow light to be fire; and having satisfied their inquisition, who would know what becometh of it when it dyeth, if it be a body: we will now apply ourselves to answer their difficulties, who will not let it pass for a body, because it is in the same place with an other body; as, when the sun beams enlighten all the air, and when the several lights of two distinct candles are both of them every where in the same room. Which is the substance of the second main objection.  
This of the justling of the air, is easily answered thus▪ that the air being a very divisible body, doth without resistance yield as much place as is requisite for light. And that light, though our eyes judge it diffused every where, yet is not truly in every point or atom of air: but to make us see it every where, it sufficeth that it be in every part of the air which is as big as the black or sight of our eye; so that we can not set our eye in any position where it receiveth not impressions of light. In the same manner as perfumes: which though they be so gross bodies that they may be sensibly wasted by the wind; nevertheless, they do so fill the air, that we can put our nose in no part of the room, where a perfume is burned, but we shall smell it. And the like is of mists; as also of the sprouted water to make a perfume, which we mentioned above.  
But because pure discourses, in such small thriddes as these, do but weakly bind such readers as are not accustomed unto them; and that I woudl (if it be possible) render this treatise intelligible to every rational man, how ever little versed in scholastike learning (among whom I expect it will have a fairer passage, then among those that are already deeply imbued with other principles:) let us try if we can herein inform ourselves by our sense, and bring our eyes for witness of what we say. He than that is desirous to satisfy himself in this particular; may put himself in a dark room, through which the sun sendeth his beams by a cranny or little hole in the wall; and he will discover a multitude of little atoms flying about in that little stream of light; which his eye can not discern, when he is environed on all sides with a full light. Then let him examine, whether or no there be light in the midst of those little bodies: and his own reason will easily tell him, that if those bodies were as perspicuous as the air, they would not reflect upon our eyes, the beams by which we see them. And therefore, he will boldly conclude, that at the least such parts of them as reflect light unto us, do not admit it, nor let it sink into them. Then let him consider the multitude of them; and the little distance betwixt one an other; and how nevertheless they hinder not our sight; but we have it free to discover all objects beyond them, in what position soever we place our eye: and when he thus perceiveth that these opacous bodies, which are every where, do not hinder the eye from judging light to have an equal plenary diffusion through the whole place that it irradiateth; he can have no difficulty to allow air, (that is diaphanous, and more subtle far than they, and consequently, divisible into lesser atoms, and having lesser pores, giveth less scope unto our eyes to miss light, than they do) to be every where mingled with light, though we see nothing but light, and can not discern any breach or division of it.  
Especially, when he shall add unto this consideration; that the subtle body which thus filleth the air, is the most visible thing in the world; and that, whereby all other things are seen: and that the air which it mingleth itself with, is not at all visible, by reason of the extreme diaphaneity of it, and easy reception of the light into every poor of it without any resistance or reflection: and that such is the nature of light, as it easily drowneth an obscure body, if it be not too big: and not only such, but even other light bodies: for so we know as well the fixed stars as the planets, are concealed from our sight, by nearness to the sun; neither the lightness of the one, nor the bigness of the other, prevailing against the darkening of an exuperant light: and we have daily experience of the same, in very pure crystal glasses, and in very clear water; which though we can not discern by our sight, if they be in certain positions; nevertheless, by experience we find that they reflect much light, and consequently have great store of opacous parts: and then he can not choose but conclude, that it is impossible, but light should appear as it doth, to be every where, and to be one continued thing; though his discourse withal assure him it is every where mingled with air.  

2 The least sensible point of a diaphanous body, hath room sufficient to contain both air and light, together with a multitude of beams issuing from several lights, without penetrating one an other.  And this very answer I think will draw with it by consequence, the solution of the other part of the same objection; which is, of many lights joining in the same place; and the same is likewise, concerning the images of colours every where crossing one an other without hindrance. But to raise this contemplation a strain higher; let us consider, how light being the most rare of all known bodies, is of its own nature (by reason of the divisibility that followeth rarity) divisible into lesser parts then any other; and particularly then flame; which being mixed with smoke and other corpulency, falleth very short of light. And this, to the proportion in which it is more rare than the body it is compared unto. Now a great Mathematician having devised how to measure the rarefaction of gunnepowder into flame, 
Willebrord Snell.  found the diameter to times increased; and so concluded, that the body of the flame, was in proportion to the body of the gunnepowder it was made of, as 125000 is to one. Wherefore, by the immediately proceeding consequence, we find that 125000 parts of flame may be couched in the room of one lest part of gunnepowder, and peradventure, many more, considering how porous a body gunnepowder is. Which being admitted, it is evident that although light were as gross as the flame of gunnepowder, and gunnepowder were as solid as gold; yet there might pass 125000 rays of light, in the space wherein one lest part of gunnepowder might be contained: which space, would be absolutely invisible unto us, and be contained many times in the bigness of the sight of a man's eye. Out of which we may gather what an infinity of objects may seem unto us to cross themselves in the same indivisible place, and yet may have room sufficient for every one to pass his way, without hindering his fellow. Wherefore, seeing that one single light could not send rays enough to fill every little space of air that is capable of light, and the less, the further it is from the flame) it is obvious enough to conceive, how in the space where the air is, there is capacity for the rays of many candles.  
Which being well summed up will take away the great admiration how the beams of light, though they be corporeal, can in such great multitudes, without hindering one an other, enter into bodies and come to our eye: and will show, that it is the narrowness of our capacities, and not the defect of nature, which maketh these difficulties seem so great; for she hath sufficiently provided for all these subtle operations of fire; as also for the entrance of it into glass, and into all other solid bodies that are diaphanous (upon which was grounded the last instance the second objection pressed:) for all such bodies being constituted by the operation of fire (which is always in motion) there must needs be ways left for it both to enter in and to evaporate out. And this is most evident in glass which being wrought by an extreme violent fire and swelling with it, as water and other things do by the mixture of fire; must necessarily have great store of fire in itself whiles it is boiling; as we see by its being red hot. And hence it is, that the workmen are forced to let it cool by degrees in such relentinge of fire as they call their nealing heats; lest it should shiver in pieces by a violent succeeding of air in the room of the fire; for that being of greater parts than the fire, would strain the pores of the glass too suddenly, and break it all in pieces to get ingression: whereas in those nealing heats the air being rarer, lesser parts of it succeed to the fire, and leisurely stretch the pores without hurt. And therefore we need not wonder that light passeth so easily through glass; and much less, that it getteth through other bodies; seeing, the experience of Alchemissts doth assure us that it is hard to find any other body so impenetrable as glass.  

3 That light doth not enlight en any room in an instant; and that the great celerity of its motion doth make it imperceptible to our senses.  But now to come to the answer of the first, and in appearance most powerful objection against the corporeity of light; which urgeth that his motion is performed in an instant, and therefore can not belong to what is material and clothed with quantity. We will endeavour to show how unable the sense is to judge of sundry sorts of motions of Bodies, and how grossly it is mistaken in them. And then, when it shall appear that the motion of light must necessarily be harder to be observed then those others: I conceive, all that is raised against our opinion by so incompetent a judge, will fall flat to the ground.  
First then, let me put the reader in mind, how if ever he marked children when they play with firestickes, they move and whirl them round so fast, that the motion will cozen their eyes, and represent an entire circle of fire unto them: and were it somewhat distant, in a dark night, that one played so with a lighted torch, it would appear a constant wheel of fire without any discerning of motion in it. And then, let him consider how slow a motion that is in respect of what it is possible a body may participate of: and he may safely conclude, that it is no wonder though the motion of light be not descried, and that indeed no argument can be made from thence to prove that light is not a body.  
But let us examine this consideration a little further, and compare it to the motion of the earth or heavens: let the appearing circle of the fire, be some three foot diameter, and the time of one entire circulation of it, be the sixtieth part of a minute; of which minutes, there are 60. in an hour; so that in a whole day, there will be but 86400. of these parts of time. Now the diameter of the wheel of fire being but of three foot, the whole quantity of space that it moveth in that atom of time will be at the most 10. foot; which is three paces and a foot: of which parts, there are near eleven millions in the compass of the earth: so that if the earth be moved round in 24. hours, it must go near 130. times as fast as the boys stick doth, which by its swift motion deceiveth our eye. But if we allow the sun, the moon, and the fixed stars to move; how extreme swift must their flight be, and how imperceptible would their motion be in such a compass as our sight would reach unto? And this being certain, that whether the earth or they do move, the appearances to us are the same▪ it is evident, that as now they can not be perceived to move (as peradventure they do not;) so it would be the very same in show to us, although they did move. If the sun were near us, and galloped at that rate; surely we could not distinguish between the beginning and ending of his race: but there would appear one permanent line of light from East to West, without any motion at all: as the torch seemeth to make, with so much a slower motion, one permanent immovable wheel of fire.  
But contrary to this effect, we see that the sun and stars by only being removed further from our eyes, do cousin our sight so grossly that we can not discern them to be moved at all. One would imagine that so rapide and swift a motion, should be perceived in some sort or other, (which, whether it be in the earth, or in them, is all one to this purpose.) Either we should see them change their places whiles we look upon them, as arrows and birds do when they fly in the air: or else, they should make a stream of light bigger than themselves, as the torch doth. But none of all this happeneth: let us gaze upon them so long and so attentively that our eyes be dazzled with looking, and all that while they seem to stand immovable▪ and our eyes can give us no account of their journey till it be ended. They discern it not whiles it is in doing: so that if we consult with no better cownsailour than them, we may wonder to see that body at night setting in the West, which in the morning we beheld rising in the East.  
But that which seemeth to be yet more strange, is, that these bodies move cross us, and nevertheless are not perceived to have any motion at all. Consider then how much easier it is for a thing that moveth towards us, to be with us before we are aware. A nimble fencer will put in a thrust so quick, that the foil will be in your bosom, when you thought it a yard off; because in the same moment you saw his point so far distant, and could not discern it to move towards you, till you felt the rude salutation it gave you. If then you will compare the body of light with these others that thus deceive us in regard of motion; you must needs agree it is much rashness to conclude it hath no motion, because we can not discern the succession of it. Consider that it is the subtlest of all the bodies that God hath made. Examine the paths of it, which for the smallness of their thriddes, and the extreme divisibility of them, and their pliant application of themselves to whatsoever hath pores, are almost without resistance. Calculate the strange multiplication of it, by a perpetual momentary renovation of its streams. And cast with yourself, with what extreme force it springeth out and flieth abroad. And on the other side, reflect how all these things are directly opposite and contrary in those other great bodies, whose motion nevertheless appeareth not unto us till it be done and passed. And when you have well weighed all this; you must needs grant that they who in this case guide themselves merely by what appeareth unto their eyes, are ill judgers of what they have not well examined.  

4 The reason why the motion of light, is not discerned coming towards us▪ and that there is some real tardity in it.  But peradventure some who can not all of a sudden be weaned from what their sense hath so long fed them with; may ask yet further, how it chanceth that we have no effects of this motion? It showeth not itself in the air, coming to us a far of. It stayeth not a thought, or slackneth his speed in flying so vast a space as is from the sun to us. In fine there is no discovery of it.  
But if Galileus his conception be well grounded; that lightning giveth us an incling of its motion, beginning from a little and increasing to a greater: or if Monsieur des Cartes his opinion that it goeth slower in refraction, be true: we shall not need to study long for an answer. But in Galileus his experience, it may be the breaking of the cloud which receiveth that succession of motion which we see: and no slowness that light can acquire by the resistance of the refracting body, can be so great as to make that difference of lines which Monsieur Des Cartes most ingeniously (though I much doubt not truly) hath applied to yield the reason of refraction: as will appear in our further discourse.  
Therefore, these being uncertain; we will, to show the unreasonableness of this question, suppose there may be some observable tardity in the motion of light; and then ask of them, how we should arrive to perceive it? What sense should we employ in this discovery? It is true, we are satisfied that sound taketh up time in coming to our ears: but it is, because our eyes are nimbler than they, and can perceive a good way distant the carpenters axe falling upon the timber that he heweth, or the fire flashing out of the canon, before they hear any news of them: but shut your eyes; or inquire of a blind man; and then neither you nor he can tell whether those sounds fill your ears at the very instant they were begotten, or have spent some time in their journey to you. Thus than our eyes instruct our ears. But is there any sense quicker than the sight? or means to know speedier than by our eyes? Or can they see light, or any thing else; until it be with them? We may then assuredly conclude, that its motion is not to be discerned as it cometh upon us; nor itself to be perceived, till its beams are in our eyes.  
But if there were any means to discover its motion, surely it must be in some medium, through which it must struggle to get, as fire doth through iron; which increasing there by degrees, at last (when it is red hot) sendeth beams of light quite through the plate that at the first refused them passage. And it maketh to this purpose, that the lightconseruing stones which are gathered in Italy, must be set in the sun for some while before they retain light: and the light will appear in them when they are brought back into the dark, greater or lesser (until they come to their utmost period) according as they have been longer or a lesser while in the sun. And our eyes the longer they remain in the light, the more dazzled they are if they be suddenly passed into the dark. And a curious experiencer did affirm, that the likeness of any object (but particularly he had often observed it of an iron grate) if it be strongly enlightened will appear to an other, in the eye of him that looketh strongly and steadily upon it till he be dazzled by it; even after he shall have turned his eyes from it. And the wheel of fire could never be made appear unto our eye by the whirling of the firesticke we even now spoke of; unless the impression made by the fire from one place, did remain in the eye a while after the fire was gone from the place whence it sent that ray. Whence it is evident, that light, and the pictures of objects, do require time to settle and to unsettle in a subject. If then light maketh a greater impression with time, why should we doubt but the first cometh also in time; were our sense so nimble as to perceive it?  
But than it may be objected, 
5 The planets are not certainly ever in that place where they appear to be.  that the sun would never be truly in that place in which unto our eyes it appeareth to be: because that, it being seen by means of the light which issueth from it; if that light required time to move in, the sun (whose motion is so swift) would be removed from the place where the light left it, before it could be with us to give tidings of him. To this I answer, allowing that peradventure it may be so. Who knoweth the contrary? Or what inconvenience would follow, if it be admitted? Indeed, how can it be otherwise? In refraction, we are sure it is so: and therefore at no time but when the sun is perpendicularly over our heads, we can be certain of the contrary although it should send its light to us in an instant. Unless happily the truth of the case should be, that the sun doth not move about us; but we turn to his light: and then, the objection also looseth its aim.  
But the more we press the quickness of light; 
6 The reason why light being a body, doth not by its motion shatter other bodies into pieces.  the more we engage ourselves in the difficulty why light doth not shatter the air in pieces, as likewise all solid bodies whatsoever: for the masters of natural Philosophy do tell us, that a softer thing with a great velocity, is as powerful in effect when it giveth a blow, as a harder thing going slowly. And accordingly experience teacheth us, that a tallow candle shot in a gun, will go through a broad or kill a man. Wherefore light having such an infinite celerity, should also have an unresistable force, to pierce and shatter, not only the air, but even the hardest bodies that are. Peradventure some may think it reasonable to grant the consequence (in due circumstances) since experience teacheth us that the congregation of a little light by a glass, will set very solid bodies on fire, and will melt metals in a very short space; which showeth a great activity; and the great activity showeth a great percussion, burning being effected by a kind of attrition of the thing burned. And the great force which fire showeth in guns and in mines, being but a multiplication of the same, doth evidently convince that of its own nature, it maketh a strong percussion, when all due circumstances concur. Whereas it hath but little effect, if the due circumstances be wanting; as we may observe in the insensible burning of so rarifyed a body as pure spirit of wine converted into flame.  
But we must examine the matter more particularly, and must seek the cause why a violent effect doth not always appear, wheresoever light striketh; for the which we are to note that three things do concur to make a percussion great. The bigness, the density and the celerity of the body moved. Of which three, there is only one in light; to wit, celerity: for it hath the greatest rarity, and the rays of it are the smallest parcels, of all natural bodies. And therefore since only celerity is considerable in the account of lights percussions, we must examine what celerity is necessary to make the stroke of a ray sensible: first than we see that all the motes of the air, nay even feathers and straws, do make no sensible percussion when they fall upon us: therefore we must in light have at the least a celerity that may be to the celerity of the straw falling upon our hand (for example,) as the density of the straw is to the density of light, that the percussion of light may be in the least degree sensible. But let us take a corn of gunnepowder instead of a straw (between which there can not be much difference) and then putting that the density of fire, is to the density of gunnepowder as 1. to 125000; and that the density of the light we have here in the earth, is to the density of that part of fire which is in the sun's body, as the body of the sun is to that body which is called Orbis magnus, (whose semidiameter is the distance between the sun and the earth▪) which must be in subtriple proportion of the diameter of the sun to the diameter of the great orb: it followeth that 125000. being multiplied by the proportion of the great orb unto the sun (which Galileo telleth us is as 106000000. unto one) will give a scantling of what degree of celerity light must have more than a corn of gunnepouder, to recompense the excess of weight which is in a corn of gunnepouder, above that which is in a ray of light, as big as a corn of gunnepouder. Which will amount to be much greater than the proportion of the semidiater of Orbis magnus, to the semidiater of the corn of gunnepouder: for if you reckon 5. grains of gunnepouder to a barley corns breadth, and 12. of them in an inch, and 12. inches in a foot, and 3. feet in a pace, and 1000 paces in a mile, and 3500. miles in the semidiameter of the earth, and 1208. semidiameters of the earth, in the semidiameter of the Orbis magnus, there will be in it but 9132480000000. grains of gunnepouder; whereas the other calculation maketh light to be 13250000000000. times raver than gunnepouder; which is almost ten times a greater proportion than the other. And yet this celerity supplieth but one of the two conditions wanting in light to make its percussions sensible, namely density. Now because the same velocity, in a body of a lesser bulk, doth not make so great a percussion as it doth in a bigger body; and that the littleness of the least parts of bodies followeth the proportion of their rarity: this vast proportion of celerity must again be drawn into itself, to supply for the excess in bigness that a corn of gunnepouder hath over an atom of light: and the product of this multiplication will be the celerity required to supply for both defects. Which evidently showeth, it is impossible that a ray of light should make any sensible percussion, though it be a body. Especially considering that sense never taketh notice of what is perpetually done in a moderate degree. And therefore, after this minute looking into all circumstances, we need not have difficulty in allowing unto light the greatest celerity imaginable, and a percussion proportionate to such a celerity in so rare a body; and yet not fear any violent effect from its blows: unless it be condensed, and many parts of it be brought together to work as if they were but one.  
As concerning the last objection; 
7 The reason why the body of lighlt is never perceived to be fanned by the wind.  that if light were a body, it would be fanned by the wind: we must first consider what is the cause of a things appearing to be moved: and then examine what force that cause hath in light. As for the first part; we see that when a body is discerned now in one place, now in an other, than it appeareth te be moved. And this we see happeneth also in light; as when the sun or a candle is carried or moveth, the light thereof in the body of the candle or sun seemeth to be moved along with it. And the likes is in a shining cloud or comet.  
But to apply this to our purpose: we must note that the intention of the objection is, that the light which goeth from the fire to an opacous body far distant without interruption of its continuity, should seem to be jogged or put out of its way, by the wind that crosseth it. Wherein the first failing is, that the obiectour conceiveth light to send species unto our eye from the midst of its line: whereas with a little consideration he may perceive, that not light is seen by us but that which is reflected from an opacous body to our eye: so that the light he meaneth in his objection, is never seen at all. Secondly; it is manifest that the light which stricketh our eye, doth strike it in a strait line; and seemeth to be at the end of that strait line, wheresoeur that is; and so can never appear to be in an other place: but the light which we see in an other place, we conceive to be an other light. Which maketh it again evident, that the light can never appear to shake, though we should suppose that light may be seen from the middle of its line; for no part of wind or air can come into any sensible place in that middle of the line, with such speed that new light from the source doth not illuminate it sooner than it can be seen by us: wherefore it will appear to us illuminated as being in that place: and therefore, the light can never appear shaken. And lastly, it is easier for the air or wind to destroy the light, than it is to remove it out of its place: wherefore, it can never so remove it out of its place, as that we should see it in an other place. But if it should remove it, it would wrap it up within itself and hide it.  

8 The reasons, for and against lights being a body, compared together.  In conclusion; after this long dispute concerning the nature of light: if we consider well what hath been said on both sides (to which much more might be added, but that we have already trespassed in length, and I conceive, enough is said to decide the matter) an equal judge will find the balance of the question to hang upon these terms: that, to prove the nature of light to be material and corporeal, are brought a company of accidents well known to be the proprieties of quantity or bodies; and as well known to be in light. Even so far as that it is manifest, that light in its beginning before it be dispersed, is fire; and if again it be gathered together, it showeth itself again to be fire. And the receptacles of it, are the receptacles of a body: being a multitude of pores; as the hardness and coldness of transparent things, do give us to understand; of which we shall hereafter have occasion to discourse.  
On the contrary side, whatsoever arguments are brought against lights being a body, are only negatives. As, that we see not any motion of light; that we do not discern, where the confines are between light and air; that we see not room for both of them, or for more lights to be together; and the like: which is to oppose negative proofs against affirmative ones; and to build a doctrine upon the defect of our senses; or upon the likeness of bodies which are extremely unlike, expecting the same effects from the most subtle as from the most gross ones. All which, together with the authority of Aristotle and his followers, have turned light into darkness, and have made us almost deny the light of our own eyes.  

9 A summary repetition of the reasons, which prove that light is fire.  Now then, to take our leave of this important question: let us return to the principles from whence we began, and consider; that seeing fire is the most rare of all the Elements, and very dry: and that out of the former it hath that it may be cut into very small pieces; and out of the latter, that it conserveth its own figure, and so is apt to divide, whatsoever fluid body: and joining to these two principles, that it multiplieth extremely in its source. It must of necessity follow that it shooteth out in great multitudes, little small parts into the air and into other bodies circumfused, with great dilatation, in a spherical manner. And likewise that these little parts are easily broken; and new ones, still following the former, are still multiplied in strait lines from the place where they break. Out of which it is evident, that of necessity it must in a manner fill all places; and that no sensible place is so little, but that fire will be found in it, if the medium be capacious. As also, that its extreme lest parts will be very easily swallowed up in the parts of the air, which are humid; and by their enfolding, be as it were quite lost; so as to lose the appearance of fire. Again that in its reflections, it will follow the nature of grosser bodies, and have glidinges like them; which is that, we call refractions. That, little streaminge from it will cross one an other in excessive great numbers, in an unsensible part of space, without hindering one an other. That its motion will be quicker than sense can judge of; and therefore, will seem to move in an instant, or to stand still as in a stagnation. That if there be any bodies so porous with little and thick pores; as that the pores arrive near unto equalling the substance of the body; then, such a body will be so filled with these little particles of fire, that it will appear as if there were no stop in its passage, but were all filled with fire; and yet, many of these little parts will be reflected. And whatsoever qnalities else we find in light, we shall be able to derive them out of these principles, and show that fire must of necessity do what experience teacheth us that light doth. That is to say in one word, it will show us that fire is light. But if fire be light, than light must needs be fire. And so we leave this matter.   

THE NINETH CHAPTER. Of Local Motion in common.  
THOUGH in the fifth chapter, 
1 No local motion can be performed without succession.  we made only earth the pretender in the controversy against fire for superiority in activity; (and in very truth, the greatest force of gravity doth appear in those bodies which are eminently earthy:) nevertheless, both water and air (as appeareth out of the fourth chapter of the Elements) do agree with earth in having gravity. And gravity, is the chief virtue to make them efficients. So that upon the matter, this plea is common to all the three Elements.  
Wherefore, to explicate this virtue, whereby these three weighty Elements do work; let us call to mind what we said in the beginning of the last chapter concerning local motion: to wit that according as the body moved, or the divider did more and more enter into the divided body; so, it did join itself to some new parts of the medium or divided body, and did in like manner forsake others. Whence it happeneth that in every part of motion, it possesseth a greater part of the medium than itself can fill at once. And because by the limitation and confinednesse of every magnitude unto just what it is, and no more; it is impossible that a lesser body should at once equallise a greater. It followeth that this division or motion whereby a body attaineth to fill a place bigger than itself, must be done successively: that is, it must first fill one part of the place it moveth in, than an other; and so proceed on, till it have measured itself with every part of the place from the first beginning of the line of motion to the last period of it where the body resteth.  
By which discourse it is evident, that there can not in nature be a strength so great as to make the least or quickest movable that is, to pass in an instant, or all together, over the least place that can be imagined: for that would make the moved body (remaining what it is, in regard of its bigness) to equallise ad fit a thing bigger than it is. Therefore it is manifest, that motion must consist of such parts as have this nature; that whiles one of them is in being, the others are not yet: and as by degrees every new one cometh to be; all the others that were before, do vanish and cease to be. Which circumstance accompanying motion, we call succession.  

2 Time is the common measure of all succession.  And whatsoever is so done, is said to be done in time: which is the common measure of all succession, for, the change of situation of the stars, but especially of the sun and moon, is observed more or less by all mankind: and appeareth alike to every man: and (being the most known, constant, and uniform succession that men are used unto) is as it were by nature itself set in their way and offered unto them as fittest to estimate and judge all other particular successions, by comparing them both to it, and among themselves by it. And accordingly we see all men naturally measure all other successions, and express their quantities, by comparing them to the revolutions of the heavens; for days, hours, and years, are nothing else but they, or some determinate parts of them: unto some of which, all other motions and successions must of necessity be referred, if we will measure them. And thus we see how all the mystery of applying time unto particular motions, is nothing else but the considering how far the Agent that moveth the sun, causeth it to go on in its journey, whiles the Agent that moveth a particular body, causeth it to perform its motion.  

3 What velocity is, and that it can not be infinite.  So that it is evident, that velocity is the effect of the superproportion of the one Agent over a certain medium, in respect of the proportion which an other Agent hath to the same medium. And therefore, velocity is a quality by which one succession is intrinsically distinguished from an other: though our explication, useth to include time in the notions of velocity and tardity. Velocity then, is the effect (as we said) of more strength in the Agent. And having before expressed, that velocity is a kind of density; we find that this kind of density is an excellency in succession; as permanent density, is an excellency in the nature of substance, though an imperfection in the nature of quantity (by which we see, that quantity is a kind of base alloy added to substance.) And out of this it is evident, that by how much the quicker the motion is in equal mediums, by so much the agent is the perfecter which causeth it to be so quick. Wherefore, if the velocity should ascend so much as to admit no proportion between the quickness of the one and the tardity of the other, all other circumstances being even, excepting the difference of the agents; then there must be no proportion between the agents. Nor indeed can there be any proportion between them though there were never so great differences in other circumstances, as long as those differences be within any proportion. And consequently, you see that if one agent be supposed to move in an instant, and an other in time; whatsoever other differences be in the bodies moved and in the mediums; nevertheless the agent which causeth motion in an instant, will be infinite in respect of the agent which moveth in time. Which is impossible: it being the nature of a body, that greater quantity of the same thing h●th greater virtue, than a less quantity hath; and therefore, for a body to have infinite virtue, it must have infinite magnitude.  
If any should say the contrary; affirming that infinite virtue may be in a finite body; I ask, whether in half that body (were it divided) the virtue would be infinite or no? If he acknowledge that it would not; I infer thence, that neither in the two parts together th●re can be infinite virtue: for two finites can not compose and make up one infinite. But if he will have the virtue be infinite in each half, he therein alloweth that there is no more virtue, in the whole body then in one half of it: which is against the nature of bodies. Now that a body can not be infinite in greatness, is proved in the second knot of Mr. whites first Dialogue of the world. And thus it is evident, that by the virtue of pure bodies there can be no motion in an instant.  
On the other side, 
4 No force so little, that is not able to move the greatest weight imaginable.  it followeth that there can not be so little a force in nature, but that giving it time enough, it will move the greatest weight that can be imagined: for, the things we treat of, being all of them quantities; they may by division and multiplication, be brought unto equality. As for example▪ supposing the weight of a movable, to be a million of pounds▪ and that the mover is able to move the millioneth part of one of those pounds, in a million of years, the millioneth part of a pace, through a medium of a certain rarity. Now, seeing that years may be multiplied so, as to equalise the force of this mover, unto the weight of the movable. It followeth clearly that in so many millions of years, this force may move the whole weight of a million of pounds, through the determined medium in a determinate number of millions of years, a million of paces: for such a force is equal to the required effect; and by consequence, if the effect should not follow, there would be a complete cause put, and no effect result from it.  
But peradventure it is needful to illustrate this point yet further: suppose then a weight never so great to be A, and a force never so little to be B. Now if you conceive that some other force moveth A, you must withal conceive that it moveth A some space, since all motion implieth necessarily that it be through some space: let that space be CD. And because a body can not be moved in a space in an instant, but requireth some time to have its motion performed in; it followeth that there must be a determined time, in which the conceived force must move the weight A through the space CD: let that time be EF. Now then; this is evident, that it is all one to say that B moveth A, and to say that B moveth A through a space in a time; so that if any part of this be left out, it can not be understood that B moveth A. Therefore to express particularly the effect which B is to do upon A, we must say that B must move A a certain space in a certain time. Which being so we may in the next place consider that this effect of moving A may be diminished two ways, either because the space it is to be moved in, is lessened; or the time taken up in its motion, is increased: for, as it is a greater effect, to move A through the space CD, in a less time then OF, so it is a less effect to move the same A, through the space CD, in a greater time then OF; or through a less space than CD in the time EF. Now then, this being supposed, that it is a less effect to move A through CD, in a greater time then OF, it followeth also, that a lesser virtue is able to move it through CD in a greater time then OF, than the virtue which is required to move it, through the same space in the time EF. Which if it be once granted (as it can not be denied) then multiplying the time, as much as the virtue or force required to move A through CD in the time OF is greater than the force B; in so much time, the force B will be able to move A through CD. Which discourse is evident, if we take it in the common terms: but if it be applied to action, wherein physical accidents intervene; the artificer must have the judgement to provide for them, according to the nature of his matter.  

5 The chief principle of Mechanikes deduced out of the former discourse.  Upon this last discourse doth hang the principle which governeth Mechanikes, to wit, that the force and the distance of weights counterpoising one an other, aught to be reciprocal. That is, that by how much the one weight is heavyer than the other, by so much must the distance of the lighter from the fixed point upon which they are moved, be greater than the distance of the greater weight from the same point: for it is plain that the weight which is more distant, must be moved a greater space, than the nearer weight, in the proportion of the two distances. Wherefore, the force moving it must carry it in a velocity of the said proportion to the velocity of the other. And consequently, the Agent or mover, must be in that proportion more powerful than the contrary mover. And out of this practice of Geometricians in Mechanikes (which is confirmed by experience) it is made evident that if other conditions be equal, the excess of so much gravity will make so much velocity. And so much velocity in proportion, will recompense so much gravity.  
Out of the precedent conclusions, 
6 No movable can pass from rest to any determinate degree of velocity, or from a lesser degree to a greater, without passing through all the intermediate degrees, which are below the obtained degree.  an other followeth: which is, that nothing recedeth from quiet or rest, and attaineth a great degree of celerity, but it must pass through all the degrees of celerity that are below the obtained degree. And the like is, in passing from any lesser degree of velocity unto a greater: because it must pass through all the intermediate degrees of velocity. For by the declaration of velocity which we have even now made, we see that there is as much resistance in the medium to be overcome with speed, as there is for it to be overcome in regard of the quantity, or line of extent of it: because (as we have said) the force of the Agent in counterpoises, aught to be increased as much as the line of extent of the medium which is to be overcome by the Agent in equal time, doth exceed the line of extent of the medium, along which the resistent body is to be moved. Wherefore, it being proved that no line of extent, can be overcome in an instant, it followeth that no defect of velocity which requireth as great a superproportion in the cause, can be overcome likewise in an instant.  
And by the same reason by which we prove that a movable can not be drawn in an instant from a lower degree of velocity to a higher, it is with no less evidence concluded that no degree of velocity can be attained in an instant: for divide that degree of velocity into two halves, and if the Agent had overcome the one half, he could not overcome the other half in an instant: much less therefore is he able to overcome the whole (that is, to reduce the movable from quiet to the said degree of velocity) in an instant.  
An other reason may be, because the moovers themselves (such moovers as we treat of here) are bodies likewise moved, and do consist of parts: whereof not every one part, but a competent number of them, doth make the moving body to be a fit Agent able to move the proposed body in a proposed degree of celerity. Now this Agent meeting with resistance in the movable, and not being in the utmost extremity of density, but condensable yet further, (because it is a body;) and that every resistance (be it never so small) doth work something upon the mover (though never so hard) to condense it; the parts of the mover that are to overcome this resistance in the movable, must (to work that effect) be condensed and brought together as close as is needful, by this resistance of the movable to the mover; and so, the remote parts of the mover, become nearer to the movable, which can not be done but successively, because it includeth local motion. And this application being likewise divisible, and not all the parts flocking together in an instant to the place where they are to exercise their power; it followeth, that whiles there are fewer moving parts knit together, they must needs move less and more weakly, then when more or all of them are assembled and applied to that work. So that, the motive virtue increasing thus in proportion to the multiplying of the parts applied to cause the motion; of necessity, the effect (which is obedience to be moved, and quickness of motion in the movable) must do so too: that is, it must from nothing, or from rest, pass through all the degrees of celerity until it arrive to that which all the parts together are able to cause.  
As for example, when with my hand I strike a ball; till my hand toucheth it, it is in quiet; but then, it beginneth to move; yet with such resistance, that although it obey in some measure the stroke of my hand, nevertheless it presseth the yielding flesh of my palm backwards towards the upper and bony part of it. That part then overtaking the other, by the continued motion of my hand; and both of them joining together to force the ball away; the impulse becometh stronger, then at the first touching of it. And the longer it presseth upon it, the more the parts of my hand do condense and unite themselves to exercise their force; and the ball therefore must yield the more; and consequently, the motion of it groweth quicker and quicker, till my hand parteth from it. Which condensation of the parts of my hand increasing successively by the parts joining closer to one an other, the velocity of the balls motion (which is an effect of it) must also increase proportionably thereunto. And in like manner, the motion of my hand and arm, must grow quicker and quicker and pass all the degrees of velocity between rest and the utmost degree it attaineth unto: for seeing they are the spirits swelling the nerves, that cause the arms motion, (as we shall hereafter show;) upon its resistance, they flock from other parts of the body to overcome that resistance. And since their journey thither requireth time to perform it in; and that the nearest come first; it must needs follow, that as they grow more and more in number, they must more powerfully overcome the resistance; and consequently, increase the velocity of the motion, in the same proportion as they flock thither; until it attain that degree of velocity, which is the utmost period that the power, which the Agent hath to overcome the resistance of the medium, can bring itself unto. Between which and rest, or any inferior degree of velocity, there may be designed infinite intermediate degrees, proportionable to the infinite divisibility of time, and space in which the mover doth move. Which degrees do arise out of the reciprocal yielding of the medium. And that is likewise divisible in the same infinite proportion.  
Since then, the power of all natural Agents is limited; the mover (be it never so powerful) must be confined to observe these proportions; and can not pass over all these infinite designable degrees in an instant; but must allot some time (which hath a like infinity of designable parts) to balance this infinity of degrees of velocity: and so consequently, it requireth time, to attain unto any determinate degree. And therefore can not recede immediately from rest unto any degree of celerity; but must necessarily pass through all the intermediate ones.  
Thus it is evident that all motion which hath a beginning must of necessity increase for some time. And since the works of nature are in proportion to their causes, it followeth that this increase is in a determinate proportion. Which Galileus (unto whom we owe the greatest part of what is known concerning motion) teacheth us how to find out; and to discover what degree of celerity any movable that is moved by nature, hath in any determinate part of the space it moveth in.  
Having settled these conditions of motion; 
7 The conditions which help to motion, in the movable are three, in the medium, one.  we shall do well in the next place to inquire after the causes of it: as well in the body moved, as also in the mover that occasioneth the motion. And because we have already showed, that local motion is nothing in substance but division: we may determine that those causes which contribute to division, or resist it, are the causes which make, or resist local motion. It hath also been said, that Density hath in it a power of dividing; and that Rarity is the cause of being divided; likewise we have said that fire, by reason of its small parts, into which it may be cut (which maketh them sharp) hath also an eminence in dividing: so that we have two qualites, density and tenuity or sharpness which concur actively to division. 
Dialog. 1. of Motion.  We have told you also how Galileus hath demonstrated that a greater quantity of the same figure and density, hath a privilege of descending faster than a lesser. And that privilege consisteth in this, that the proportion of the superficies to the body it limiteth (which proportion the greater it is, the more it retardeth) is less in a greater bulk then in a smaller.  
We have therefore three conditions concurring to make the motion more efficacious: namely, the density, the sharpness, and the bulk of the movable. And more than these three, we can not expect to find in a moved body: for quantity hath but three determinations: one, by density and rarity; of which, density is one of the three conditions: an other, by its parts; as by a foot, a span, &c. and in this way we have found that the greater excelleth the lesser: the third and last, is by its figure; and in this we find that subtle or edged quantities do prevail over blunt ones. Seeing therefore, that these three determinations be all that are in quantity; there can be no more conditions in the body moved (which of necessity is a finite quantity) but the three named.  
And as for the medium which is to be divided, there is only rarity and density (the one, to help; the other, to hinder,) that require consideration on its side. For neither figure, nor littleness and greatness, do make any variation in it. And as for the Agent, it is not as yet time, before we have looked further into the nature of motion, to determine his qualities.  

8 No body hath any intrinsical virtue to move itself towards any determinate part of the universe.  Now then let us reflect how these three conditions do all agree in this circumstance, that they help nothing to division, unless the body in which they are, be moved and pressed against the body that is to be divided, so that we see no principle to persuade us, that any body can move itself towards any determinate part or place of the universe, of its own intrinsical inclination. For besides that the learned Author of the Dialogues de Mundo (in his third Dialogue, and the second knot) hath demonstrated that a body can not move unless it be moved by some extrinsecall Agent; we may easily frame unto ourselves a conceit, of how absurd it is to think that a body by a quality in it can work upon itself: as if we should say, that rarity (which is but more quantity) could work upon quantity; or that figure (which is but that the body reacheth no further) could work upon the body: and in general, that the manner of any thing, can work upon that thing whose manner it is. For Aristotle and St. Thomas, and their intelligent commentatours, declaring the notion of Quality; tell us that to be a Quality is nothing else but to be the determination or modification of the thing whose quality it is.  
Besides, that the natural manner of operation is, to work according to the capacity of the subject: but when a body is in the midst of an uniform medium or space, the subject is equally prepared on all sides to receive the action of that body. Wherefore (though we should allow it a force to move) if it be a natural Agent, and have no understanding, it must work indifferently on all sides, and by consequence, can not move on any side. For if you say that the Agent in this case (where the medium is uniform) worketh rather upon one side then upon an other; it must be because this determination is within the Agent itself, and not out of the circumstant dispositions: which is the manner of working of those substances that work for an end of their own; that is, of understanding creatures, and not of natural bodies.  
Now he that would exactly determine what motion a body hath, or is apt to have; 
9 The increase of motion is always made in the proportion of the odd numbers.  determining by supposition the force of the Agent, must calculate the proportions of all these three conditions of the movable, and the quality of the medium: which is a proceeding too particular for the intention of our discourse. But to speak in common, it will not be amiss to examine in what proportion, motion doth increase; since we have concluded that all motion proceedeth from quiet by a continual increase. Galileus (that miracle of our age, and whose wit was able to discover whatsoever he had a mind to employ it about) hath told us that natural motion, increaseth in the proportion of the odd numbers. Which to express by example, is thus: suppose that in the going of the first yard it hath one degree of velocity, then in the going of the second yard it will have three degrees, and in going the third it will have five: and so onwardly, still adding two to the degrees of the velocity for every one of the space. Or to express it more plainly; if in the first minute of time it goeth one yard of space, then in the next minute it will go three yards, in the third it will go five, in the fourth seven, and so forth.  
But we must enlarge this proposition, unto all motions, (as we have done the former, of the increase itself in velocity;) because the reason of it is common to all motions. Which is; that all motion (as may appear out of what we have formerly said) proceedeth from two causes; namely, the Agent or the force that moveth; and the disposition of the body moved, as it is composed of the three qualities we lately explicated. In which is to be noted, that the Agent doth not move simply by its own virtue, but it applieth also the virtue of the body moved, which it hath to divide the medium when it is put on. As when we cut with a knife, the effect proceedeth from the knife pressed on by the hand; or from the hand as applying and putting in action the edge and cutting power of the knife. Now this in Physics and nature is clearly parallel to what in Geometry and Arithmetic the Mathematicians call drawing one number or one side into an other; for as in Mathematics, to draw one number into an other is to apply the number drawn unto every part of the number into which it is drawn; as if we draw three into seven we make twenty one, by making every unity or part of the number seven to be three: and the like is of lines in Geometry. So in the present case, to every part of the hands motion we add the whole virtue of the cutting faculty which is in the knife, and to every part of the motion of the knife, we add the whole pressing virtue of the hand. Therefore the increase of the effect proceeding from two causes so working, must also be parallel to the increase of the quantities arising out of the like drawing in Mathematics. But in those, it is evident that the increase is according to the order of the odd numbers, and therefore it must in our case be the like: that is, the increase must be in the said proportion of odd numbers. Now that in those, the increase proceedeth so, will be evident, if you consider the increase of an Equicrure triangle; which because it goeth upon a certain proportion of length and breadth, if you compare the increases of the whole triangle (that gaineth on each side) with the increases of the perpendicular (which gaineth only in length) you will see that they still proceed in the foresaid proportion of odd numbers.  

10 No motion can increase for ever without coming to a period.  But we must not imagine, that the velocity of motion will always increase thus for as long as we can fancy any motion: but when it is arrived unto the utmost period that such a movable with such causes is capable of than it keepeth constantly the same pace, and goeth equally and uniformly at the same rate. For since the density of the movable, and the force of the Agent moving it, (which two, do cause the motion) have a limited proportion to the resistance of the medium, how yielding soever it be; it must needs follow, that when the motion is arrived unto that height which ariseth out of this proportion, it can not exceed it, but must continue at that rate, unless some other cause give yet a greater impulse to the movable. For velocity consisting in this, that the movable cutteth through more of the medium in an equal time; it is evident, that in the increase of velocity, the resistance of the medium, which is overcome by it; groweth greater and greater, and by little and little gaineth upon the foree of the Agent; so that the superproportion of the Agent, groweth still lesser and lesser, as the velocity increaseth: and therefore, at the length they must come to be balanced. And then, the velocity can increase no more.  
And the reason of the increase of it, for a while at the beginning, is because that coming from rest it must pass, through all the intermediate degrees of velocity before it can attain to the height of it, which requireth time to perform, and therefore falleth under the power of our sense to observe. But because we see it do so for some time, we must not therefore conclude that the nature of such motion, is still to increase without any period or limit; like those lines that perpetually grow nearer, and yet can never meet: for we see that our reason examining the causes of this velocity, assureth us that in continuance of time and space, it may come to its height, which it can not exceed.  
And there, would be the pitch at which distance weights being let fall, would give the greatest strokes and make greatest impressions. It is true that Galileus and Mersenius (two exact experimenters) do think they find this verity by their experiences. But surely that is impossible to be done; for the increase of velocity being in a proportion ever diminishing; it must of necessity come to an insensible increase in proportion before it endeth: for the space which the movable goeth through, is still increased; and the time wherein it passeth through that space, remaineth still the same little one as was taken up in passing a less space immediately before; and such little differences of great spaces passed over in a little time, come soon to be undiscernible by sense. But reason (which showeth us, that if velocity never ceased from increasing, it would in time arrive to exceed any particular velocity; and by consequence, the proportion which the mover hath to the medium; because of the adding still a determinate part to its velocity) concludeth plainly that it is impossible, motion should increase for ever, without coming to a period.  
Now the impression which falling weights do make, 
11 Certain problems resolved concerning the proportion of some moving Agents compared to their effects.  is of two kinds; for the body into which impression is made, either can yield backward, or it can not. If it can yield backward, than the impression made is a motion: as we see a stroke with a rackett upon a ball, or with a pailemaile beetle upon a bowl, maketh it fly from it. But if the strucken body can not yield backwards, than it maketh it yield on the sides. And this, in divers manners: for if the smitten body be dry and brittle, it is subject to break it, and make the pieces fly round about: but if it be a tough body, it squeeseth it into a larger form.  
But because the effect in any of these wayse is eminently greater than the force of the Agent seemeth to be; it is worth our labour to look into the causes of it. To which end we may remember how we have already declared that the force of the velocity is equal to a reciprocal force of weight in the virtue movent: wherefore the effect of a blow that a man giveth with a hammer, dependeth upon the weight of the hammer, upon the velocity of the motion, and upon the hand, in case the hand accompanieth the blow. But if the motion of the hand ceaseth before (as when we throw a thing) then only the velocity and the weight of the hammer remain to be considered. Howsoever, let us put the hand and weight in one sum which we may equalise by some other virtue or weight. Then let us consider the way or space, which a weight lying upon the thing is to go forwardly to do the same effect in the same time as the percussion doth. And what excess the line of the blow, hath over the line of that way or space; such an excess we must add of equal weight or force, to the weight we had already taken. And the weight composed of both, will be a fit Agent to make the like impression. This Problem was proposed unto me by that worthy religious man, Father Mersenius: who is not content with advancing learning by his own industry and labours; but besides, is always (out of his generous affection to verity) inciting others to contribute to the public stock of it.  
He proposed to me likewise this following question, to wit why there is required a weight of water in double Geometrical proportion, to make a pipe run twice as fast as it did, or to have twice as much water run out in the same time? Unto which I answer out of the same ground as before. That because in running twice as fast, there goeth out double water in every part of time; and again, every part of water goeth a double space in the same part of time; that is to say because double the celerity is drawn into double the water, and double the water into double the celerity; therefore, the present effect is to the former effect, as the effect or quadrate of a double line drawn into itself, is, to the effect or quadrate of half the said line drawn into itself. And consequently the cause, of the latter effect (which is the weight then) must be to the cause of the former effect (that is, to the former weight) in the same proportion; namely as the quadrate of a double line, is to the quadrate of half that line. And so you see the reason of what he by experience findeth to be true. Though I doubt not but when he shall set out the treatise, which he hath made of this subject; the reader will have better satisfaction.  
In the mean while, an experience which Galileo delivereth, will confirm this doctrine. He saith that to make the same pendant go twice as fast as it did, or to make every undulation of it in half the time it did; you must make the line at which it hangeth, double in Geometrical proportion, to the line at which it hanged before. Whence it followeth that the circle by which it goeth, is likewise in double Geometrical proportion. And this being certain, that celerity to celerity hath the proportion of force, which weight hath to weight; it is evident, that as in one case there must be weight in Geometrical proportion; so in the other case, where only celerity maketh the variance, the celerity must be in double Geometrical proportion, according as Galileo findeth it by experience.  
But to return to our main intent, there is to be further noted, that if the subject strucken be of a proportionate cessibility, it seemeth to dull and deaden the stroke: whereas, if the thing strucken be hard the stroke seemeth to lose no force, but to work a greater effect. Though indeed the truth be, that in both cases the effects are equal; but divers according to the natures of the things that are strucken; for no force that once is in nature, can be lost; but must have its adequate effect, one way or other.  
Let us then first suppose the body strucken to be a hard body of no exceeding bigness: in which case, if the stroke light perpendiculary upon it, it will carry such a body before it. But if the body be too great, and have its parts so conjoined, as that they are weaker then the stroke; in this case, the stroke driveth one part before it, and so breaketh it from the rest. But lastly, if the parts of the strucken body be so easily cessible as without difficulty the stroke can divide them, than it entereth into such a body until it hath spent its force. So that now making up our account; we see that an equal effect proceedeth from an equal force, in all the three cases; though in themselves, they be far different. But we are apt to account that effect greater, which is more considerable unto us, by the profit or damage it bringeth us. And therefore, we usually say, that the blow which shaketh a wall, or beateth it down, and killeth men with the stones it scattereth abroad; hath a greater effect than that which penetrateth far into a mud wall, and doth little harm: for that innocuousnesse of the effect, maketh that although in itself it be as great as the other, yet it is little observed or considered.  
This discourse draweth on an other: 
12 When a movable cometh to rest, the motion doth decrease according to the rules of increase.  which is to declare how motion ceaseth. And to sum that up in short, we say that when motion cometh unto rest, it decreaseth and passeth through all the degrees of celerity and tardity that are between rest, and the height of that motion, which so declineth. And that, in the proportion of the odd numbers; as we declared above that it did increase. The reason is clear: because that which maketh a motion cease, is the resistance it findeth: which resistance, is an action of a mover that moveth some thing against the body which is moved, or some thing equivalent to such an action: wherefore it must follow the laws that are common to all motions: of which kind those two are that we have expressed in this conclusion. Now, that resistance is a countermotion, or equivalent to one; is plain by this; that any body which is pressed, must needs press again upon the body that presseth it; wherefore the cause that hindereth such a body from yielding, is a force moving that body, against the body which presseth it. The particulars of all which we shall more at large declare, where we speak of the action and reaction of particular bodies.   

THE TENTH CHAPTER. Of Gravity and Levity; and of Local Motion, commonly termed Natural.  

1 Those motions are called natural which have constant causes; and those violent which are contrary to them.  IT is now time to consider that distinction of motions which is so famous in Aristotle; to wit, that some motions are natural, others violent: and to determine what may be signified by these terms. For seeing we have said that no body hath a natural intrinsical inclination unto any place, to which it is able to move itself; we must needs conclude that the motion of every body followeth the percussion, of extrinsecall Agents. It seemeth therefore impossible that any body should have any motion natural to itself. And if there be none natural, there can be none violent. And so this distinction will vainsh to nothing. But on the other side, living creatures do manifesty show natural motions, having natural instruments to perform certain motions: wherefore such motions must of necessity be natural to them. But these are not the motions, which we are to speak of; for Aristotle's division is common to all bodies; or at the least, to all those we converse withal: and particulary, to those which are called heavy and light: which two terms, pass through all the bodies we have notice of.  
Therefore, proceeding upon our grounds before laid; to wit, that no body can be moved of itself; we may determine those motions to be natural unto bodies which have constant causes, or percutients to make them always in such bodies: and those violent, which are contrary to such natural motions. Which being supposed, we must search out the causes that so constantly make some bodies descend towards the centre or middle of the earth; and others to rise and go from the centre: by which, the world is subject to those restless motions that keep all things in perpetual flux, in this changing sphere of action and passion.  

2 The first and most general operation of the sun, is the making and raising of atoms.  Let us then begin with considering what effects the sun (which is a constant and perpetual cause) worketh upon inferior bodies, by his being regularly sometimes present and sometimes absent. Observe, in a pot of water hanging over a fire, how the heat maketh some parts of the water to ascend, and others to supply the room by descending; so that as long as it boileth, it is in a perpetual confused motion up and down. Now having formely concluded that fire is light, and light is fire; it can not be doubted but that the sun doth serve instead of fire to our globe of earth and water, (which may be fitly compared to the boiling pot;) and all the day long draweth vapours from those bodies that his beams strike upon. For he shooting his little darts of fire, in multitudes, and in continued streams, from his own centre, against the Python the earth we live on; they do there overtake one an other, and cause some degree of heat as far as they sink in. But not being able (by reason of their great expansion in their long journey) to convert it into their own nature and set it on fire, (which requireth a high degree of condensation of the beams) they do but pierce and divide it very subtilely, and cut some of the outward parts of it into extreme little atoms. Unto which they sticking very close, and being in a manner incorporated with them (by reason of the moisture that is in them) they do in their rebound back from the earth carry them along with them; like a ball that struck against a moist wall, doth in its return from it, bring back some of the mortar sticking upon it. For the distance of the earth from the sun, is not the utmost period of these nimble body's flight; so that, when by this solid body they are stopped in their course forwardly on, they leap back from it, and carry some little parts of it with them: some of them, a farther; some of them, a shorter journey; according as their littleness and rarity, make them fit to ascend. As is manifest by the consent of all authors that write of the regions of the air; who determine the lower region to reach as far as the reflection of the sun; and conclude this region to be very hot.  
For if we mark how the heat of fire is greatest, when it is incorporated in some dense body, (as in iron or in seacoal) we shall easily conceive that the heat of this region proceedeth mainly out of the incorporation of light with those little bodies which stick to it in its reflection. And experience testifieth the same, both in our sultry days, which we see are of a gross temper, and ordinarily go before rain: as also in the hot springes of extreme cold countries, where the first heats are unsufferable; which proceed out of the resolution of humidity congealed: and in hot winds, (which the Spaniards call Bochornos from Boca de horno by allusion to the breathing steam of an oven when it is opened) which do manifestly show that the heat of the sun is incorporated in the little bodies, which compose the steam of that wind. And by the principles we have already laid, the same would be evident; though we had no experience to instruct us; for seeing that the body of fire is dry, the wet parts (which are easilyest resolved by fire) must needs stick unto them, 
3 The light rebounding from the earth with atoms, causeth two streams in the air; the one ascending the other descending; and both of them in a perpendicular line.  and accompany them in their return from the earth.  
Now whiles these ascend, the air must needs cause others that are of a grosser complexion to descend as fast, to make room for the former and to fill the places they left, that there may be no vacuity in nature. And to find what parts they are and from whence they come, that succeed in the room of light and atoms glued together that thus ascend; we may take a hint from the maxim of the Optikes, that light reflecting maketh equal angles; whence, supposing the superficies of the earth to be circular, it will follow that a perpendicular to the centre passeth just in the middle between the two rays; the incident and the reflected. Wherefore the air between these two rays, and such dodies as are in it being equally pressed on both sides; those bodies which are just in the middle, are nearest and likeliest to succeed immediately in the room of the light and atoms which ascend from the superficies of the earth: and their motion to that point, is upon the perpendicular. Hence it is evident, that the air and all such bodies as descend to supply the place of light and atoms, which ascend from the earth, do descend perpendicularly towards the centre of the earth.  
And again such bodies as by the force of light being cut from the earth or water, do not ascend in form of light, but do incorporate a hidden light and heat within them; (and thereby are rarer than these descending bodies) must of necessity be lifted up by the descent of those denser bodies that go downwards, because they (by reason of their density) are moved with a greater force. And this lifting up, must be in a perpendicular line; because the others descending on all sides perpendicularly, must needs raise those that are between them equally from all sides: that is, perpendicularly from the centre of the earth. And thus we see a motion set on foot, of some bodies continually descending, and others continually ascending: all in perpendicular lines, excepting those which follow the course of lights reflection.  
Again as soon as the declining sun groweth weaker or leaveth our horizon, and that his beams vanishing do leave the little horsemen which road upon them, to their own temper and nature (from whence they forced them;) they finding themselves surrounded by a smart descending stream, do tumble down again in the night, as fast as in the day they were carried up; and crowding into their former habitations, they exclude those that they find had usurped them in their absence. And thus, all bodies within reach of the sun's power, but especially our air, are in perpetual motion; the more rarifyed ones ascending, and the dense ones descending.  

4 A dense body placed in the air between the ascending and descending stream, must needs descend.  Now then, because no bodies wheresoever they be (as we have already showed) have any inclination to move towards a particular place, otherwise then as they are directed and impelled by extrinsecall Agents: let us suppose that a body were placed at liberty in the open air. And then casting whether it would be moved from the place we suppose it in; and which way it would be moved; we shall find that it must of necessity happen that it shall descend and fall down till it meet with some other gross body to stay and support it. For although of itself it would move no way: yet if we find that any other body striketh efficaciously enough upon it; we can not doubt but that it will move that way which the striking body impelleth it. Now it is strucken upon on both sides (above and below) by the ascending, and the descending atoms, the rare ones, striking upon the bottom of it, and driving it upwardly, and the denser ones, pressing upon the top of it and bearing it downwards. But if you compare the impressions that the denser atoms make, with those that proceed from the rare ones; it is evident that the dense ones must be the more powerful; and therefore will assuredly determine the motion of the body in the air, that way they go; which is downwards.  
Nor need we fear, lest the littleness of the agents, or the feebleness of their strokes, should not be sufficient to work this effect; since there is no resistance in the body itself, and the air is continually cut in pieces, by the sun beams, and by the motions of little bodies; so that the adhesion unto air of the body to be moved, will be no hindrance to this motion: especially, considering the perpetual new percussions, and the multitude of them▪ and how no force is so little, but that with time and multiplication it will overcome any resistance.  
But if any man desireth to look upon, 
5 A more particular explication of all the former doctrine touching gravity.  as it were at one view; the whole chain of this doctrine of gravity: let him turn the first cast of his eyes upon what we have said of fire when we explicated the nature of it. To wit; that it beginneth from a little source; and by extreme multiplication and rarefaction, it extendeth itself into a great sphere. And then he will perceive the reason why light is darted from the body of the sun with that incredible celerity, wherewith its beams fly to visit the remotest parts of the world; and how, of necessity, it giveth motion to all circumstant bodies; since it is violently thrust forward by so extreme a rarefaction; and the further it goeth, is still the more rarifyed and dilated.  
Next, let him reflect how infinitely the quickness of lights motion, doth prevent the motion of a moist body, such an one as air is: and then he will plainly see, that the first motion which light is able to give unto the air, must needs be a swelling of that moist element, perpendicularly round about the earth; for, the ray descendent, and the ray reflectent, flying with so great a speed, that the air between them can not take a formal ply any way before the beams of light be on both sides of it: it followeth, that according to the nature of humid things, it must first only swell: for that is the beginning of motion in them, when heat entereth into them, and worketh upon them. And thus he may confidently resolve himself, that the first motion which light causeth in the air, will be a swelling of it between the two rays towards the middle of them. That is; perpendicularly from the surface of the earth.  
And out of this, he will likewise plainly see, that if there be any other little dense bodies floating in the air, they must likewise mount a little, through this swelling and rising of the air. But that mounting will be no more than the immediate parts of the air themselves do move. Because this motion is not by way of impulse or stroke that the air giveth those denser bodies; but by way of containing them in it, and carrying them with it, ●o that it giveth them no more celerity, then to make them go with itself, and as parts of itself.  
Then, let him consider, that light or fire, by much beating upon the earth, divideth some little parts of it from others: whereof if any do become so small and tractable, as not to exceed the strength which the rays have to manage them; the returning rays, will at their going back, carry away with them or drive before them, such little atoms as they have made or meet with: and so fill the air with little bodies cut out of the earth.  
After this, let him consider that when light carrieth up an atom with it, the light and the atom do stick together, and do make one ascending body; in such sort as when an empty dish lieth upon the water, the air in the dish maketh one descendent body together with the dish itself: so that the density of the whole body of air and dish (which in this case, are but as one body) is to be esteemed according to the density of the two parts; one of them being allayed by the other, as if the whole were throughout of such a proportion of density, as would arise out of the composition and kneading together the several densities of those two parts. Now then, when these little compounded bodies of light and earth, are carried up to a determinate height; the parts of fire or light, do by little and little break away from them: and thereby, the bulk of the part which is left, becometh of a different degree of density (quantity for quantity) from the bulk of the entire atom, when light was part of it: and consequently it is denser than it was.  
Besides, let him consider that when these bodies ascend; they do go from a narrow room to a large one, that is, from the centerwardes to the circumference: but when they come down again, they go from a larger part to a narrower. Whence it followeth, that as they descend, they draw closer and closer together, and by consequence, are subject to meet and to fall in, one with an other; and thereby, to increase their bulk, and to become more powerful in density; not only, by the loss of their fire; but also by the increase of their quantity. And so it is evident, that they are denser, coming down, then going up.  
Lastly, let him consider, that those atoms which went up first, and are parted from their volatile companions of fire or light, must begin to come down apace, when other new atoms (which still have their light incorporated with them) do ascend to where they are, and do go beyond them by reason of their greater levity. And as the latter atoms come up with a violence and a great celerity, so must the first go down with a smart impulse: and by consequence, being more dense than the air in which they are carried, must of necessity cut their way through that liquid and rare medium; and go the next way to supply the defect and room of the atoms which ascend; (that is, perpendicularly to the earth) and give the like motion to any body they find in their way, if it be susceptible of such a motion: which it is evident that all bodies are, unless they be strucken by some contrary impulse. For since that a bodies being in a place, is nothing else but the continuity of its outside to the inside of the body that containeth it and is its place; it can have no other repugnance to local motion (which is nothing else but a successive changing of place) besides this continuity. Now the nature of density, being the power of dividing; and every least power, having some force and efficacy, (as we have showed above) it followeth that the stroke of every atom (either descending, or ascending) will work some thing upon any body (though never so big) it chanceth to encounter with, and strike upon in its way, unless there be as strong an impulse the contrary way, to oppose it. But it being determined, that the descending atoms are denser then those that ascend; it followeth, that the descending ones will prevail. And consequently, all dense bodies must necessarily tend downwards, to the centre (which is, to be Heavy) if some other more dense body do not hinder them.  
Out of this discourse, 
6 Gravity and levity do not signify an intrinsical inclination to such a motion in the bodies themselves which are termed heavy and light.  we may conclude that there is no such thing among bodies, as positive gravity or levity: but that their course upwardly or downwards happeneth unto them by the order of nature, which by outward causes giveth them an impulse one of these ways: without which, they would rest quietly wheresoever they are, as being of themselves indifferent to any motion. But because our words express our notions, and they are framed according to what appeareth unto us; when we observe any body to descend constantly towards our earth, we call it heavy; and if it move contrariwise, we call it light. But we must take heed of considering such gravity and levity as if they were Entities that work such effects: since upon examination, it appeareth that these words are but short expressions of the effects themselves: the causes whereof, the vulgar of mankind (who impose names to things) do not consider; but leave that work unto Philosophers to examine; whiles they only observe, what they see done; and agree upon words to express that. Which words neither will in all circumstances always agree to the same thing; for as cork doth descend in air and ascend in water; so also will any other body descend if it lighteth among others more rare than itself, and will ascend if it lighteth among bodies that are more dense than it. And we term bodies light and heavy, only according to the course, which we usually see them take.  
Now proceeding further on; 
7 The more dense a body is, the more swiftly it descendeth.  and considering how there are various degrees of density or gravity: it were irrational to conceive, that all bodies should descend at the same rate, and keep equal pace with one an other, in their journey downwards. For as two knives whereof one hath a keener edge than the other, being pressed with equal strength into like yielding matter, the sharper will cut deeper than the other: so, if of two bodies one be more dense than the other; that which is so, will cut the air more powerfully, and will descend faster than the other: for in this case, density may be compared to the knife's edge, since in it consisteth the power of dividing; as we have heretofore determined. And therefore, the pressing them downwards by the descending atoms, being equal in both (or peradventure greater in the more dense body; as anon we shall have occasion to touch) and there being no other cause to determine them that way; the effect of division must be the greater, where the divider is the more powerful. Which, the more dense body is; and therefore cutteth more strongly through the resistance of the air; and consequently, passeth more swiftly that way it is determined to move.  

8 The velocity of bodies descending doth not increase in proportion to the difference that may be between their several densities.  I do not mean, that the velocities of their descent shall be in the same proportion to one an other, as their densities are: for besides their density, those other considerations which we have discoursed of above when we examined the causes of velocity in motion, must likewise be balanced. And out of the comparison of all them; not out of the consideration of any one alone, resulteth the differences of their velocities: (and that neither, but in as much as concerneth the consideration of the movables: for to make the calculation exact, the medium must likewise be considered; as by and by we shall declare) for since the motion dependeth of all them together; although there should be difference between the movables in regard of one only, and that the rest were equal; yet the proportion of the difference of their motions, must not follow the proportion of their difference in that one regard: because their difference considered single in that regard will have one proportion; and with the addition of the other considerations (though alike in both) to their difference in this, they will have an other.  
As for example, reckon the density of one movable to be double the density of an other movable; so that in that regard it hath two degrees of power to descend, whereas the other hath but one: suppose then the other causes of their descent to be alike in both, and reckon them all three: and then join these three to the one which is caused by the density in one of the movables, as likewise to the two, which is caused by the density in the other movable: and you will find that thus altogether, their difference of power to descend is no longer in a double proportion (as it would be, if nothing but their density were considered) but is in the proportion of five to four.  
But after we have considered all that concerneth the movables, we are then to cast an eye upon the medium they are to move in; and we shall find the addition of that, to decrease the proportion of their difference, exceedingly more; according to the cessibility of the medium. Which if it be air; the great disproportion of its weight, to the weight of those bodies which men use to take in making experiences of their descent in that yielding medium; will cause their difference of velocity in descending, to be hardly perceptible. Even as the difference of a sharp or dull knife, which is easily perceived in cutting of flesh or bread, is not to be distinguished in dividing of water or oil. And likewise in weights, a pound and a scruple will bear down a dram in no sensible proportion of velocity more than a pound alone would do: and yet put a pound in that scale instead of the dram, and then the difference of the scruple will be very notable. So then, those bodies, whose difference of descending in water is very sensible (because of the greater proportion of weight in water, to the bodies that descend in it) will yield no sensible difference of velocity when they descend in air, by reason of the great disproportion of weight between air and the bodies that descend in it.  
The reason of this will clearly show itself in abstracted proportions. Thus; suppose air to have one degree of density, and water to have 400: then let the movable A have 410 degrees of density; and the movable B have 500 Now compare their motion to one an other in the several mediums of air and water. The exuperance of the density of A to water is 10 degrees, but the exuperace of B, unto the same water, is 100 degrees; so that B must move in water, swifter than A, in the proportion of 100 to ten; that is, of 10 to one. Then let us compre the exuperance of the two movables over air. A is 409 times more dense than air; but B is 499 times more dense than it. By which account, the motion of B, must be in that medium swifter than the motion of A, in the proportion of 499 to 409: that is, about 50, to 41: which (to avoid fractions) we may account as 10 to 8. But in water they exceed one an other as 10 to one: so that their difference of velocity, must be scarce perceptible in air in respect of what it is in water.  
Out of all which discourse, I only infer in common that a greater velocity in motion, will follow the greater density of the movable; without determining here their proportions: which I leave unto them, who make that examination their task: for thus much serveth my present turn: wherein I take a survey of nature, but in gross. And my chief drift in this particular is only to open the way for the discovering how bodies that of themselves have no propension unto any determinate place; do nevertheless move constantly and perpetually one way; the dense ones descending, and the rare ones ascending: not by any intrinsical quality that worketh upon them; but by the oeconomy of nature, that hath set on foot due and plain causes to produce known effects.  
Here we must crave patience of the great soul of Galileo (whose admirable learning all posterity must reverence) whiles we reprehend in him, 
9 More or less gravity doth produce a swifter or a slower descending of a heavy body. Aristotle's argument to disprove motion in vacuo, is made good.  that which we can not term less than absurd: and yet, he not only mainetaineth it in several places, but also professeth Dial. P ᵒ de motu. pag. 8;. to make it more clear than day. His position is, that more or less gravity contributeth nothing at all to the faster or slower descending of a natural body: but that all the effect it giveth unto a body, is to make it descend or not descend in such a medium. Which is against the first and most known principle that is in bodies: to wit, that more doth more; and less doth less; for he alloweth, that gravity causeth a body to descend; and yet will not allow, that more gravity causeth it to descend more.  
I wonder that he never marked how in a pair of scales, a superproportion of overweight in one balance, lifted up the other faster than a less proportion of overweight would do. Or that more weight hanged to a jack, made the spit turn faster; or to the lines of a clock, made it go faster, and the like.  
But his argument whereby he endeavoureth to prove his position, is yet more wonderful: for finding in pendants unequal in gravity, that the lighter went in the same time almost as fast as the heavyer; he gathereth from thence, that the different weights have each of them the same celerity: and that it is the opposition of the air, which maketh the lighter body not reach so far at each undulation, as the heavyer doth. For reply whereunto; first we must ask him; whether experience or reason taught him, that the slower going of the lighter pendant, proceeded only from the medium, and not from want of gravity? And when he shall have answered (as he needs must) that experience doth not show this; then we must importune him for a good reason: but I do not find that he bringeth any at all.  
Again; if he admitteth (which he doth in express terms) that a lighter body can not resist the medium, so much as a heavyer body can; we must ask him, whether it be not the weight that maketh the heavyer body resist more: which when he hath acknowledged that it is; he hath therein likewise acknowledged, that whensoever this happeneth in the descending of a body, the more weight must make the heavyer body descend faster.  
But we can not pass this matter without noting how himself maketh good those arguments of Aristotle, which he seemeth by no means to esteem of: for since the gravity doth overcome the resistance of the medium in some proportion; it followeth that the proportions between the gravity and the medium, may be multiplied without end; so as, if he suppose that the gravity of a body do make it go at a certain rate in imaginary space, (which is his manner of putting the force of gravity,) then there may be given such a proportion of a heavy body to the medium, as it shall go in such a medium at the same rate; and nevertheless, there will be an infinite difference, betwixt the resistance of the medium compared to that body, and the resistance of the imaginary space compared to that other body which he supposeth to be moved in it at the same rate: which no man will stick at confessing to be very absurd.  
Then turning the scales, because the resistance of the medium doth somewhat hinder gravity, and that with less resistance, the heavy body moveth faster; it must follow, that since there is no proportion, betwixt the medium and imaginary space; there must neither be any proportion betwixt the time in which a heavy body shall pass through a certain quantity of the medium, and the time in which it shall pass through as much imaginary space: wherefore, it must pass over so much imaginary space in an instant. Which is the argument that Aristotle is so much laughed at for pressing. And in a word, nothing is more evident, then that, for this effect which Galileo attributeth to gravity, it is unreasonable to put a divisible quality, since the effect is indivisible. And therefore, as evident it is that in his doctrine such aquality; as intrinsecall gravity is conceived to be, ought not to be put: since every power should be fitted to the effect, or end for which it is put.  
An other argument of Galileo is as bad as this; when he endeavoureth to prove that all bodies go of a like velocity, because it happeneth that a lighter body in some case, goeth faster than a heavyer body in an other case▪ as for example, in two pendants, whereof the lighter is in the beginning of its motion, and the heavyer towards the end of it; or if the lighter hangeth at a longer string, and the heavyer at a shorter; we see that the lighter will go faster than the heavyer. But this concludeth no more, then if a man should prove that a lighter goeth faster than a heavyer, because a greater force can make it go faster; for it is manifest that in a violent motion, the force which moveth a body in the end of its course, is weaker than that which moveth it in the beginning: and the like is, of the two strings.  
But here it is not amiss to solve a Problem he putteth, 
10 The reason why at the inferior quarter of a circle, a body doth descend faster by the arch of that quarter, then by the chord ●f it.  which belongeth to our present subject. He findeth by experience, that if two bodies descend at the same time from the same point, and do go to the same point, the one by the inferior quarter of the cercle; the other, by the chord to that arch, or by any other lines which are chords to parts of that arch: he findeth (I say) that the movable goeth faster by the arch, then by any of the chords. And the reason is evident, if we consider that the nearer any motion doth come unto a perpendicular one downwards, the greater velocity it must have and that in the arch of such a quadrant, every particular part of it inclineth to the perpendicular of the place where it is, more than the part of the chord answerable unto it doth.   

THE ELEVENTH CHAPTER. An answer to objections against the causes of natural motion, avowed in the former chapter; and a refutation of the contrary opinion.  

1 The first objection answered; why a hollow body descendeth slower than a solid one.  But to return to the third of our doctrine; there may peradventure be objected against it, that if the violence of a body's descent towards the centre, did proceed only from the density of it (which giveth it an aptitude, the better to cut the medium) and from the multitude of little atoms descending that strike upon it, and press it the way they go; which is downwards: than it would not import whether the inner part of that body were as solid as the outward parts; for it cutteth with only the outward, and is smitten only upon the outward. And yet experience, showeth us the contrary: for a great bullet of lead, that is solid and lead throughout; descendeth faster than if three quarters of the diameter were hollow within; and such a one falling upon any resisting substance, worketh a greater effect than a hollow one. And a ball of brass that hath but a thin outside of mettle will swim upon the water, when a massy one sinketh presently. Whereby it appeareth, that it is rather some other quality belonging to the very bulk of the metal in itself; and not these outward causes, that occasion gravity.  
But this difficulty is easily overcome, if you consider how subtle those atoms are which descending downwards and striking upon a body in their way, do cause its motion likewise downwards: for you may remember how we have showed them to be the subtlest and the minutest divisions that light, the subtlest and sharpest divider in nature, can make. It is then easy to conceive that these extreme subtle bodies do penetrate all others, as light doth glass; and do run through them, as sand doth through a small sieve, or as water through a sponge; so that they strike, not only upon the superficies, but aswell in every most interior part of the whole body; running quite through it all, by the pores of it. And then, it must needs follow that the solider it is; and the more parts it hath within (as well as without) to be strucken upon; the faster it must go; and the greater effect it must work in what it falleth upon: whereas if three quarters of the diameter of it within, should be filled with nothing but with air; the atoms would fly without any considerable effect through all that space, by reason of the rarity and cessibility of it.  
And that these atoms are thus subtle; is manifest by several effects which we see in nature. divers Authors that write of Egypt, do assure us that though their houses be built of strong stone; nevertheless, a clod of earth laid in the inmost rooms, and shut up from all appearing communication with air, will increase its weight so notably, as thereby they can judge the change of weather, which will shortly ensue. Which can proceed from no other cause, but from a multitude of little atoms of saltpetre; which floating in the air, do penetrate through the strongest walls, and all the massy defences in their way, and do settle in the clod of earth as soon as they meet with it; because it is of a temper fit to entertain and to conserve, and to embody them. Delights have showed us the way, how to make the spirits or atoms of snow and saltpetre pass through a glass vessel; which Alchemists hold to be the most impenetrable of all they can find to work with. In our own bodies; the aches which feeble parts do feel before change of weather, and the heaviness of our heads and shoulders, if we remain in the open air presently after sunnesett; do abundantly testify, that even the grosser of these atoms (which are the first that fall) do vehemently penetrate our bodies: so as, sense will make us believe, what reason peradventure could not.  
But besides all this, there is yet a more convincing reason, why the descending atoms should move the whole density of a body; even though it were so dense that they could not penetrate it, and get into the bowels of it; but must be content to strike barely upon the outside of it. For nature hath so ordered the matter, that when dense parts stick close together, and make the length composed of them to be very stiff▪ one can not be moved but that all the rest (which are in that line) must likewise be thereby moved: so that if all the world weary composed of atoms, close sticking together, the least motion imaginable, must drive on all that were in a strait line, to the very end of the world. This you see is evident in reason. And experience confirmeth it, when by a little knock given at the end of a long beam, the shaking (which maketh sound) reacheth sensibly to the other end. The blind man that governeth his steps by feeling, in defect of eyes, receiveth advertisements of remote things, through a staff which he holdeth in his hands, peradventure more particularly than his eyes could have directed him. And the like is of a deaf man that heareth the sound of an instrument, by holding one end of a stick in his mouth, whiles the other end resteth vpon the instrument. And some are of opinion (and they, not of the rank of vulgar Philosophers) that if a staff were as long as to reach from the sun to us, it would have the same effect in a moment of time. Although for my part I am hard to believe that we could receive an advertisement so far, unless the staff were of such a thickness as being proportionable to the length might keep it from facile bending: for if it should be very pliant it would do us no service: as we experience in a third, which reaching from our hand to the ground, if it knock against any thing, maketh no sensible impression in our hand.  
So that in fine reason, sense and authority do all of them show us, that the less the atoms should penetrate into a moving body, by reason of the extreme density of it, the more efficaciously they would work, and the greater celerity they would cause in its motion. And hence we may give the fullest solution to the objection above, which was to this effect: that seeing, division is made only by the superficies or exterior part of the dense body; and that the virtue whereby a dense body doth work, is only its resistance to division; which maketh it apt to divide: it would follow that a hollow bowl of brass or iron should be as heavy as a solid one. For we may answer, that seeing the atoms must strick through the body; and that a cessible body doth not receive their strokes so firmly as a stiff one; nor can convey them so far: if unto a stiff superficies there succeed a yielding inside, the strokes must of necessity loose much of their force; and consequently, can not move a body full of air, with so much celerity, or with so much efficacy, as they may a solid one.  

2 The second objection answered, and the reasons shown, why atoms do continually overtake the descending dense body.  But then, you may peradventure say, that if these strokes of the descending atoms upon a dense body, were the cause of its motion downwards, we must allow the atoms to move faster than the dense body; that so, they may still overtake it, and drive it along, and enter into it: whereas, if they should move slower than it, none of them could come in their turn to give it a stroke, but it would be passed them, and out of their reach before they could strike it. But it is evident (say you) out of these pretended causes of this motion, that such atoms can not move so swiftly downwards, as a great dense body; since their littleness and their rarity, are both of them hindering to their motion: and therefore, this can not be the cause of that effect which we call gravity.  
To this I reply; that to have the atoms give these blows to a descending dense body, doth not require that their natural and ordinary motion should be swifter than the descent of such a dense body: but the very descent of it, occasioneth their striking it, for as it falleth and maketh itself a way through them, they divide themselves before it, and swell on the sides and a little above it, and presently close again behind it and over it as soon as it is past. Now that closing, to hinder vacuity of space, is a sudden one; and thereby attaineth great velocity; which would carry the atoms in that degree of velocity, further than the descending body, if they did not encounter with it in their way to retard them: which encounter and retarding, implieth such strokes, upon the dense body, as we suppose to cause this motion. And the like we see in water; into which letting a stone fall; presently the water that was divided by the stone and swelleth on the sides higher, than it was before, closeth upon the back of the descending stone, and followeth it so violently, that for a while after, it leaveth a purling hole in the place where the stone went down; till by the repose of the stone, the water returneth likewise to its quiet; and so, its superficies becometh even.  
In the third place, an enquiry occurreth emergent out of this doctrine, of the cause of bodies moving upwardly and downwards. 
3 A curious question left undecided.  Which is; whether there would be any natural motion deep in the earth, beyond the activity of the sun's beams? For out of these principles, it followeth that there would not: and consequently, there must be a vast orb in which there would be no motion of gravity or of levity: for suppose that the sun beams might pierce a thousand miles deep into the body of the earth; yet there would still remain a mass, whose diameter would be near 5000 miles, in which there would be no gravitation nor the contrary motion.  
For my part, I shall make no difficulty to grant the inference, as far as concerneth motion caused by our sun: for what inconvenience would follow out of it? But I will not offer at determining whether there may not be enclosed within that great sphere of earth, some other fire, (such as the chemists talk of) an Archaeus; a Demogorgon; seated in the centre, like the hart in animals; which may raise up vapours, and boil an air out of them, and divide gross bodies into atoms; and accordingly give them motions, answerable to ours, but in different lines from ours, according as that fire or sun is situated: since the farre-searching Author of the Dialogues de Mundo, hath left that speculation undecided, after he had touched upon it in the 12: knot of his first Dialogue.  
Fourthly, 
4 The fourth objection answered; why the descent of the same heavy bodies, is equal in so great inequality of the atoms which cause it.  it may be objected that if such descending atoms, as we have described, were the cause of a body's gravity, and descending towards the centre; the same body would at divers times descend more and less swiftly: for example after midnight when the atoms begin to descend more slowly; then likewise, the same body would descend more slowly in a like proportion, and not weigh so much as it did in the heat of the day. The same may be said of summer and winter: for in winter time, the atoms seem to be more gross; and consequently, to strike more strongly upon the bodies they meet with in their way as they descend: yet on the other side, they seem in the summer to be more numerous, as also to descend from a greater height; both which circumstances will be cause of a stronger stroke and more vigorous impulse upon the body they hit. And the like may be objected of divers parts of the world, for in the torride zone it will always happen as in summer in places of the temperate zone; and in the polar climbs, as in deepest winter: so that no where, there would be any standard or certainty in the weight of bodies, if it depended upon so mutable a cause. And it maketh to the same effect, that a body which lieth under a thick rock, or any other very dense body, that can not be penetrated by any great store of atoms; should not be so heavy as it would be in the open and free air, where the atoms in their complete numbers have their full strokes.  
For answer to these and such like instances; we are to note first, that it is not so much the number, or the violence of the percussion, of the striking atoms, as the density of the thing strucken which giveth the measure to the descending of a weighty body: and the chief thing which the stroke of the atoms giveth unto a dense body, is a determination of the way which a dense body is to cut unto itself: therefore, multiplication or lessening of the atoms, will not make any sensible difference betwixt the weight of one dense body, where many atoms do strike, and an other body of the same density where but few do strike; so that, the stroke downwards of the descending atoms, be greater than the stroke upwardly of the ascending atoms; and thereby determineth it to weigh to the centerwardes, and not rise floating upwardly, which is all the sensible effect we can perceive.  
Next, we may observe, that the first particulars of the objection, do not reach home to enfeeble our doctrine in this particular, although we admit them to be in such sort as they are proposed: for they do withal imply such a perpetual variation of causes, ever favourable to our position, that nothing can be inferred out of them to repugn against it. As thus: when there are many atoms descending in the air; the same general cause which maketh them be many, maketh them also be light, in proportion to their multitude. And so, when they are few, they are heavy; likewise, when the atoms are light, the air is rarifyed and thin; and when they are heavy, the air is thick: and so upon the whole matter it is evident that we can not make such a precise and exact judgement of the variety of circumstances, as to be able to determine, when there is absolutely more cause of weight; and when less. And as we find not weight enough in either side of these opposite circumstances to turn the scales in our discourse, so likewise we find the same indifference in experience itself: for the weights we use, do weigh equally in misty weather and in clear: and yet in rigour of discourse, we can not doubt but that in truth they do not gravitate or weigh so much (though the difference be imperceptible to sense) when the air is thick and foggy, as when it is pure and rarifyed: which thickness of the medium, when it arriveth to a very notable degree, as for example to water, maketh then a great difference of a heavy bodies gravitation in it; and accordingly, we see a great difference between heavy bodies descending in water and in air; though between two kinds of air, none is to be observed, their difference is so small in respect of the density of the body that descendeth in them. And therefore, seeing that an assured and certain difference in circumstances maketh no sensible inequality in the effect; we can not expect any from such circumstances, as we may reasonably doubt whether there be any inequality among them or no.  
Besides that, if in any of the proposed cases, a heavy body should gravitate more, and be heavyer one time then an other; yet by weighing it, we could not discern it; since that the counterpoise (which is to determine its weight) must likewise be in the same proportion heavyer than it was. And besides weighing, no other means remaineth to discover its greater gravitation, but to compare it to time in its descent: and I believe that in all such distances as we can try it in, its inequalities will be no whitt less difficult to be observed that way, than any other.  
Lastly, 
5 The reason, why the shelter of a thick body doth not hinder the descent of that which is under▪ ti.  to bend our discourse particularly to that instance of the objection; where it is conceived that if gravity or descending downwards of bodies, proceeded from atoms striking upon them as they move downwards; it would follow that a stone or other dense body lying under shelter of a thick, hard, and impenetrable adamantine rock, would have no impulse downwards, and consequently would not weigh there. We may note that no body whatsoever, compacted by physical causes and agents, can be so dense and imporous, but that such atoms, as these we speak of, must be in them, and in every part of them, and every where pass through and through them; as water doth through a seeve or through a sponge: and this universal maxim must extend as far as the sun, or as any other heat communicating with the sun, doth reach and is found.  
The reason whereof, is, because these atoms are no other thing, but such extreme little bodies as are resolved by heat; out of the main stock of those massy bodies upon which the sun and heat do work. Now then, it being certain, out of what we have heretofore said, that all mixed bodies have their temper and consistence, and generation from the mingling of fire with the rest of the Elements that compose them; and from the concoction or digestion which fire maketh in those bodies: it is evident, that no mixed body whatsoever, nor any sensible part of a mixed body, can be void of pores capable of such atoms, nor can be without such atoms, passing through those pores; which atoms by mediation of the air (that likewise hath its share in such pores) must have communication with the rest of the great sea of air, and with the motions that pass in it. And consequently; in all and in every sensible part, of any such extreme dense, and pretended impenetrable body, (to the notice whereof we can arrive) this percussion of atoms must be found; and they will have no difficulty in running through; nor, by means of it, in striking any other body lying under the shelter of it; and thus both in, and from, that hard body, there must be still an vninterrupted continuation of gravity or of descending towards the centre.  
Unto which we may add, that the stone or dense body can not lie so close to the rock that covereth it, but that some air must be between, (for if nothing were between, they would be united, and become one continued body;) and in that air (which is a creek of the great ocean of air spread over the world, that is every where bestrewed with moving atoms; and which is continually fed, like a running stream, with new air that driveth on the air it overtaketh) there is no doubt but there are descending atoms, as well as in all the rest of its main body: and these descending atoms meeting with the stone, must needs give some stroke upon it; and that stroke (be it never so little) can not choose but work some effect, in making the stone remove a little that way they go; and that motion, whereby the space is enlarged, between the stone and the sheltering rock, must draw in a greater quantity of air and atoms to strike upon it. And thus, by little and little, the stone passeth through all the degrees of tardity by which a descending body parteth from rest: which is by so much the more speedily done, by how much the body is more eminent in density. But this difference of time, in regard of the atoms strokes only; and abstracting from the body's density; will be insensible to us; seeing (as we have said) no more is required of them, but to give a determination downwards.  

6 The reason why some bodies sink, others swim.  And out of this, we clearly see the reason why the same atoms, striking upon one body lying upon the water, do make it sink; and upon an other, they do not. As for example, if you lay upon the superficies of some water, a piece of iron, and a piece of cork, of equal bigness and of the same figure; the iron will be beaten down to the bottom, and the cork will float at the top. The reason whereof is, the different proportions of the comparison of their densities with the density of water: for (as we have said) the efficacy, and force of descending, is to be measured by that. So then, the strokes of the atoms, being more efficacious upon water then upon cork, because the density of water is greater than the density of cork considering the abundance of air that is harboured in the large pores of it; it followeth that the atoms will make the water go down more forcibly than they will cork. But the density of iron exceeding the density of water; the same strokes will make the iron descend faster than the water; and consequently the iron must sink in the water, and the cork will swim upon it.  
And this same is the cause, why if a piece of cork be held by force at the bottom of the water; it will rise up to the top of the water, as soon as the violence is taken away that kept it down: for the atoms strokes having more force upon the water then upon the cork; they make the water sink and slide under it; first, a little thin plate of water; and then an other, a little thicker; and so by degrees more and more, till it hath lifted the cork quite up to the top.  
Fi●thly it may be objected, that these atoms do not descend always perpendicularly, be sometimes sloapingly; and in that case, if their strokes be the cause of dense bodies moving, 
7 The fifth objection answered concerning the descending of heavy bodies in streams.  they should move sloping, and not downward. Now that these atoms descend sometimes sloapingly, is evident, as when (for example) they meet with a stream of water, or with a strong wind, or even with any other little motion of the air, such as carrieth feathers up and down hither and thither; which must needs waft the atoms in some measure along with them their way; seeing then that such a gentle motion of the air is able to put a feather out of its way, notwithstanding the percussions of the atoms upon it; why shall it not likewise put a piece of iron out of its way downwards, since the iron hath nothing from the atoms but a determination to its way? But much more, why should not a strong wind, or a current of water, do it; since the atoms themselves that give the iron its determination, must needs be hurried along with them?  
To this we answer, that we must consider, how any wind or water which runneth in that sort, is itself originally full of such atoms which continually, and every where, press into it and cut through it, in pursuing their constant perpetual course of descending; in such sort, as we have showed in their running, through any hard rock, or other densest body. And these atoms, do make the wind or the water primarily tend downwards; though other accidental causes impel them secondarily to a sloaping motion. And still, their primary natural motion will be in truth strongest; though their not having scope to obey that, but their having enough, to obey the violent motion, maketh this become the more observable. Which appeareth evidently out of this; that if there be a hole in the bottom of the pipe that conveyeth water sloapingly, be the pipe never so long, and consequently the sloaping motion never so forcible; yet the water will run out at that hole to obey its more powerful impulse to the centerwardes, rather than continue the violent motion, in which it had arrived to a great degree of celerity.  
Which being so, it is easy to conceive that the atoms in the wind or water which move perpendicularly downwards, will still continue the irons motion downwards, notwithstanding the mediums sloping motion: since the prevailing force determineth, both the iron, and the medium downwards; and the iron hath a superproportion of density to cut its way, according as the prevalent motion determineth it.  
But if the descending atoms, be in part carried along down the stream by the current of wind or water; yet still the current bringeth with it, new atoms into the place of those that are carried away: and these atoms, in every point of place wheresoever they are, do of themselves tend perpendicularly downwards; howbeit they are forced from the complete effect of their tendance, by the violence of the current: so that in this case they are moved by a declining motion, compounded of their own natural motion, and of the forced motion, with which the stream carrieth them. Now than if a dense body, do fall into such a current where these different motions give their several impulses, it will be carried (in such sort as we say of the atoms; but in an other proportion) not in a perpendicular but in a mixed declining line, compounded of the several impulses, which the atoms and the current do give it (in which also it is to be remembered, how the current giveth an impulse downwards, as well as sloping; and peradventure the strongest downwards:) and the declination will be more or less; according, as the violent impulse prevaileth more or less against the natural motion.  
But this is not all that is to be considered in estimating the declination of a dense body's motion when it is sinking in a current of wind or water; you must remember that the dense body itself, hath a particular virtue of its own (namely its density) by which it receiveth and prosecuteth more fully its determination downwards; and therefore the force of that body in cutting its way through the medium, is also to be considered in this case, as well as above, in calculating its declining from the perpendicular; and out of all these causes will result a middle declination, compounded of the motion of the water or wind both wayse, and of its own motion by the perpendicular line. And since of these three causes of a dense body's motion, it's own virtue in prosecuting by its density the determination it requireth, is the most efficacious by much after it hath once received a determination from without; its declination will be but little if it be very dense and heavy. But if it recede much from density, so as to have, some near proportion to the density of the medium, the declination will be great. And in a word, according as the body is heavyer or lighter, the declination will be more or less, in the same current though not exactly according to the proportion of the diminishing of its density, as long as there is a superproportion of its density to the medium: since that such a superproportion (as we have declared heretofore) maketh the mediums operation upon the dense body scarce considerable.  
And hence you see why a stone or piece of iron, is not carried out of its way as well as feather; because the stones motion downwards, is greater and stronger, than the motion of a feather downwards. And by consequence, the force that can deturne a feather from its course downwards, is not able to deturne a stone. And if it be replied, that it may be so ordered that the stone shall have no motion, before it be in the stream of a river, and notwithstanding it will still move downwards; we may answer, that considering the little declivity of the bed of such a stream, the strongest motion of the parts of the stream, must necessarily be downwards; and consequently, they will beat the stone downwards. And if they do not the like to a feather or other light body; it is because other parts of the stream, do get under the light body; and beat it upwardly, which they have not power enough to do to the stone.  
Sixthly, 
8 The sixth objection answered: and that all heavy elements do weigh in their own spheres.  it may be objected, that if Elements do not weigh in their own spheres; then their gravity and descending must proceed from some other cause and not from this percussion of the atoms we attribute it to; which percussion we have determined goeth through all bodies whatsoever, and beateth upon every sensible part of them. But that Elements weigh not in their own spheres, appeareth out of the experience of a syphon; for though one leg of the syphon, be sunk never so much deeper into the body of the water, than the other leg reacheth below the superficies of the water: nevertheless, if once the outward leg become full of water, it will draw it out of the other longer leg: which it should not do, if the parts of water that are comprised within their whole bulk, did weigh; seeing that the bulk of water is much greater, in the sunk leg then in the other: and therefore these should rather draw back the other water into the cistern, then be themselves drawn out of it into the air.  
To this we answer that it is evident the Elements do weigh in their own spheres, at least, as far as we can reach to their spheres: for we see that a ballone stuffed hard with air is heavyer than an empty one. Again more water would not be heavyer than less if the inward parts of it did not weigh: and if a hole were digged in the bottom of the sea, the water would not run into it and fill it, if it did not gravitate over it. Lastly, there are those who undertake to distinguish in a deep water, the divers weights which several parts of it have, as they grow still heavyer and heavyer towards the bottom: and they are so cunning in this art, that they profess to make instruments which by their equality of their weight to a determinate part of the water, shall stand just in that part, and neither rise nor fall higher or lower: but if it be put lower, it shall ascend to its exact equally weighing orb of the water; and if it be put higher, it shall descend until it cometh to rest precisely in that place. Whence it is evident, that parts of water do weigh within the bulk, of their main body; and of the like we have no reason to doubt, in the other two weighty Elements.  
As for the opposition of the syphon, we refer that point to where we shall have occasion to declare the nature of that engine, of set purpose. And there we shall show, that it could not succeed in its operation, unless the parts of water did gravitate in their main bulk, into which one leg of the syphon is sunk.  
Lastly, 
9 The 7th objection answered: and the reason why we do not feel the course of the air and atoms that beat continually upon us.  it may be objected, that if there were such a course of atoms as we say; and that their strokes were the cause of so notable an effect, as the gravity of heavy bodies: we should feel it palpably in our own bodies, which experience showeth us we do not.  
To this we answer first: that their is no necessity we should feel this course of atoms, since by their subtlety they penetrate all bodies; and consequently, do not give such strokes as are sensible. Secondly, if we consider that dustes, and straws, and feathers do light upon us without causing any sense in us; much more we may conceive that atoms (which are infinitely more subtle and light) can not cause in us any feeling of them. Thirdly, we see that what is continual with us, and mingled in all things doth not make us take any especial notice of it: and this is the case of the smiting of atoms. Nevertheless, peradventure we feel them in truth, as often as we feel hot and cold weather, and in all catarrhs or other such changes, which do as it were sink into our body without our perceiving any sensible cause of them: for no question but these atoms are the immediate causes of all good and bad qualities in the air. Lastly, when we consider that we can not long together hold out our arm at length, or our foot from the ground, and reflect upon such like impotencies of our resisting the gravity of our own body: we can not doubt, but that in these cases we feel the effect of these atoms, working upon those parts; although we can not by our sense discern immediately that these are the causes of it.  

10 How in the same body, gravity may be greater than density, and density than gravity; though they be the same thing.  But now it is time to draw our Reader out of a difficulty, which may peradventure have perplexed him in the greatest part of what he hath hitherto gone over. In our investigation of the Elements, we took for a principle thereunto: that gravity, is sometimes more, sometimes less, than the density of the body in which it is. But in our explication of rarity and density; and again in our explication of gravity; we seem to put, that gravity and density is all one. This thorn I apprehend, may in all this distance, have put some to pain: but it was impossible for me to remedy it; because I had not yet delivered the manner of gravitation. Here than I will do my best, to assuage their grief, by reconciling these appearing repugnancies.  
We are therefore to consider, that density (in itself) doth signify a difficulty to have the parts of its subject in which it is, separated one from an other; and that gravity (likewise in itself) doth signify a quality, by which a heavy body doth descend towards the centre; or (which is consequent thereunto) a force to make an other body descend. Now this power, we have showed, doth belong unto density, so far forth as a dense body being strucken by an other, doth not yield by suffering its parts to be divided; but, with its whole bulk striketh the next before it, and divideth it, if it be more divisible than itself is. So that you see, density hath the name of density, in consideration of a passive quality or rather of an impassibility, which it hath; and the same density is called gravity, in respect of an active quality it hath which followeth this impassibility. And both of them are estimated by the different respects which the same body or subject, in which they are, have unto different bodies that are the terms whereunto it is compared; for the active quality or gravity of a dense body, is esteemed by its respect to the body it striketh upon; whereas its density, includeth a respect singly to the body that striketh it.  
Now it is no wonder that this change of comparison, worketh a disparity in the denominations: and that thereby, the same body, may be conceived to be more or less impartible, than it is active or heavy. As for example, let us, of a dense Element, take any one lest part, which must of necessity be in its own nature and kind absolutely impartible: and yet it is evident, that the gravity of this part must be exceeding little, by reason of the littleness of its quantity; so that thus you see an extremity of the effect of density, joined together in one body (by the accident of the littleness of it) with a contrary extremity of the effect of gravity, (or rather with the want of it) each of them within the limits of the same species. In like manner it happeneth, that the same body in one circumstance is more weighty; in an other (or rather in the contrary) is more partible: so water when it is in a pail, because it is thereby hindered from spreading abroad, hath the effect of gravity predominating in it; but if it be poured out, it hath the effect of partibility more. And thus it happeneth that merely by the gradation of rarity and density, one dense body may be apt, out of the general course of natural causes, to be more divisible, then to be a divider; though according to the nature of the degrees considered absolutely in themselues, what is more powerful to divide, is also more resistent and harder to be divided. And this arriveth in that degree which maketh water; for the falling and beating of the atoms upon water, hath the power, both to divide it and to mak● it descend; but so, that by making it descend it divideth it. And therefore we say that it hath more grautty than density, though it be the very density of it, which is the cause that maketh it partible, by the working of one part upon an other: for if the atoms did not find the body, so dense as it is, they could not by their beating upon one part make an other be divided.  
So that, a dense body to be more heavy than dense, signifieth nothing else, but that it is in such a degree of density, ●hat some of its own parts, by their being assisted and set on work by a general cause, (which is the fall of the atoms) are powerful enough to divide, other adjoining parts of the same density with them, one from an other: in such sort as we see, that water poured out of an eawer into a basin where there is already other water, hath the power to divide the water in the basin by the assistance of the celerity which it getteth in descending. And now I hope the reader is fully satisfied that there is no contradiction in putting Density and Gravity to be the same thing materially; and that nevertheless the same thing, may be more heavy than dense, or more dense than heavy, as we took it to our several purposes in the investigation of the Elements. 
11 The opinion of gravities being an intrinsical inclination of a body to the centre, refuted by reason.   
Having, thus laid an intelligible ground to discover how these motions that are general to all bodies, and are natural in chief, are contrived by nature: we will now endeavour to show that the contrary position is not only voluntary, but also impossible. Let us therefore suppose that a body hath a quality to move it downwards. And first we shall ask what downwards signifieth: for either it signifieth towards a fixed point of imaginary space; or towards a fixed point of the universe; or towards some movable point. As for the first, who would maintain it must have more imagination than judgement, to think that a natural quality could have an essence determined by a nothing: because we can frame a conceit of that nothing. As for the second, it is very uncertain, whether any such point be in nature: for, as for the centre of the earth it is clear that if the earth, be carried about, the centre of it can not be a fixed point. Again, if the centre signifieth a determinate point in the earth that is the medium of gravity or of quantity, it is changed as often as any dust lighteth unequally upon any one side of the earth, which would make that side bigger than it was: and I doubt a quality can not have moral considerations to think that so little doth no harm. As for the third position, likewise it is not intelligible how a quality should change its inclination or essence, according to the change that should light to make now one point, now an other, be the centre unto which it should tend.  
Again, let us consider that a quality hath a determinate essence. Then seeing its power is to move, and to move, signifieth to cut the medium it is moved in; it belongeth unto it of its nature, to cut so much of such a medium in such a time. So that, if no other cause be added but that you take precisely and in abstracto, that quality, that medium, and that time; this effect will follow, that so much motion is made. And if this effect should not follow, it is clear, that the being able to cut so much of such a medium in such a time, is not the essence of this quality, as it was supposed to be. Dividing then the time, and the medium, half the motion should the made in half the time, a quarter of the motion in a quarter of the time, and so without end, as far as you can divide. But this is demonstratively impossible; sithhence it is demonstrated that a movable coming from rest, must of necessity pass through all degrees of tardity; and therefore by the demonstration cited out of Galileus, we may take a part in which this gravity can not move its body in a proportionate part of time, through a proportionate part of the medium.  

12 The same opinion refuted by several experiences.  But because in natural Theorems, experiences are naturally required; let us see whether nature giveth us any testimony of this verity. To that purpose we may consider a plummet, hanged in a small string from a beam, which being lifted up gently on the one side at the extent of the string, and permitted to fall merely by the power of gravity, it will ascend very near as high on the contrary side, as the place it was held in from whence it fell. In this experiment we may note two things: the first, that if gravity be a quality, it worketh against its own nature, in lifting up the plumett, seeing its nature is only to carry it down. For though it may be answered that it is not the gravity; but an other quality, called vis impressa which carrieth it up: nevertheless it can not be denied, but that gravity is either the immediate or at least the mediate cause which maketh this vis impressa: the effect whereof, being contrary to the nature of gravity; it is absurd to make gravity the cause of it: that is, the cause of an essence, whose nature is contrary to its own. And the same argument, will proceed, though you put not vis impressa, but suppose some other thing to be the cause of the plummets remounting, as long as gravity is said to be a quality: for still gravity must be the cause of an effect contrary to its own inclination, by setting on foot the immediate cause to produce it.  
The second thing we are to note in this experiment of the plummets ascent is; that if gravity be a quality, there must be as much resistance to its going up, as there was force to its coming down. Therefore, there must be twice as much force to make it ascend, as there was to make it descend: that is to say, there must be twice as much force, as the natural force of the gravity is: for there must be once as much, to equalise the resistance of the gravity; and then an other time as much, to carry it as far through the same medium in the same time. But it is impossible that any cause should produce an effect greater than itself.  
Again; the gravity must needs be in a determinate degree: and the virtue that maketh the plummett remount (whatsoever it be) may be put as little as we please: and consequently, not able to oversway the gravity alone if it be an intrinsical quality and yet the plummet will remount: in which case you put an effect, without a cause.  
An other experience we may take from the force of sucking, for take the barrel of a long gun perfectly bored, and set it upright, with the breech upon the ground, and take a bullet that is exactly fit for it, but so as it stick not any where (both the barrel, and it, being perfectly polished;) and then if you suck at the mouth of the barrel (though never so gently) the bullet will come up so forcibly, that it will hazard the striking out of your teeth. Now let us consider, what force were necessary to suck the bullet up, and how very slowly it would ascend, if in the barrel it had as much resistance to ascend as in the free air it hath inclination to go down. But if it had a quality of gravity natural to it, it must of necessity have such resistance: whereas in our experiment we see it cometh as easily as the very air. So that in this example as well as in the other nature teacheth us that gravity is no quality.  
And all, or most of the arguments which we have urged against the quality of gravity in that explication, we have considered it in: have force likewise against it, although it be said to be an inclination of its subject to move itself unto unity with the main stock of its own nature, as divers witty men do put it: for this supposition doth but change the intention or end of gravity: and is but to make it an other kind of intellectual or knowing Entity, that determineth itself to an other end: which is as impossible for a natural quality to do, as to determine itself to the former ends. And thus much, the arguments we have proposed, do convince evidently, if they be applied against this opinion.   

THE twelfth CHAPTER. Of Violent Motion.  

1 The state of the question touching the cause of violent motion.  ANd thus, we have given a short scantling, whereby to understand in some measure, the causes of that motion, which we call natural, by reason it hath its birth from the universal oeconomy of nature here among us; that is from the general working of the sun, whereby all natural things have their course: and by reason that the cause of it is at all times, and in all places, constantly the same. Next unto which the order of discourse leadeth us to take a survey of those forced motions, whose first causes the more apparent they are the more obscurity they leave us in, to determine by what means they are continued.  
When a tennis ball is strucken by a rackett, or an arrow is shot from a bow, we plainly see the causes of their motion: namely, the strings; which first yielding, and then returning with a greater celerity, do cause the missives to speed so fast towards their appointed homes. Experience informeth us what qualities the missives must be endued withal to move fast and steadily. They must be so heavy that the air may not break their course; and yet so light, that they may be within the command of the stroke, which giveth them motion; the striker must be dense, and in its best velocity: the angle which the missive is to mount by (if we will have it go to its furthest random) must be the half of a right one: and lastly, the figure of the missive must be such, as may give scope unto the air to bear it up, and yet not hinder its course by taking too much hold of it. All this we see; but when withal we see that the mover, deserteth the movable as soon as he hath given the blow; we are at a stand, and know not where to seek for that which afterwards maketh it fly: for motion being a transient, not a permanent thing; as soon as the cause ceaseth that begot it, in that very point it must be at an end; and as long as the motion continueth, there must be some permanent cause to make it do so: so that as soon as the rackett, or bowstring, go back and leave the ball or arrow; why should not they presently fall strait down to the ground?  

2 That the medium is the only cause, which continueth ●●●lent motion.  Aristotle and his followers, have attributed the cause hereof to the air: but Galileo relisheth not this conception. His arguments against it, are (as I remember) to this tenor: first; air by reason of its rarity and divisibility, seemeth not apt to conserve motion: next; we see that light things are best carried by the air; and it hath no power over weighty ones: lastly it is evident that air taketh most hold of the broadest superficies; and therefore an arrow would fly faster broadwayes than longwayes, if this were true. Nevertheless, since every effect must have a proportionable cause from whence it immediately floweth; and that a body, must have an other body to thrust it on, as long as it moveth; let us examine what bodies do touch a movable whilst it is in motion: as the only means to find an issue out of this difficulty; for, to have recourse unto a quality or impressed force, for deliverance out of this strait, is a shift that will not serve the turn in this way of discourse we use. In this Philosophy, no knot admitteth such a solution.  
If then we inquire what body it is that immediately toucheth the ball or arrow whiles it flieth; we shall find, that none other doth so, but the air and the atoms in it, after the strings have given their stroke, and are parted from the missive. And although we have Galileo's authority, and arguments to discourage us from believing that the air can work this effect; yet since there is no other body besides it left for us to consider in this case; let us at the least examine how the air behaveth itself, after the stroke is given by the strings. First then, it is evident, that as soon as the rackett or bowstring shrinketh back from the missive, and leaveth a space between the missive and it (as it is clear, it doth, as soon as it hath strucken the resisting body) the air must ' needs clap in with as much velocity as they retire, and with some what more; because the missive goeth forward at the same time, and therefore, the air must hasten to overtake it, lest any vacuity should be left between the string and the arrow. It is certain likewise, that the air on the sides doth also upon the division of it, slide back and help to fill that space which the departed arrow leaveth void. Now this forcible cloosing of the air at the neck of the arrow must ' needs give an impulse or blow upon it: if it seem to be but a little one, you may consider how it is yet much greater, than what the air and the bodies swimming in it, do at the first give unto a stone falling from high; and how at the last, those little atoms that drive a stone in its natural motion, do with their little blows force it peradventure more violenty and swiftly then any impelling Agent we are acquainted with, can do. So that the impulse which they make upon the arrow, pressing violently upon it, after such a vehement concussion, and with a great velocity, must needs cause a powerful effect in that which of itself is indifferent to any motion any way.  
But unless this motion of the air do continue to beat still upon the arrow, 
3 A further explication of the former doctrine.  it will soon fall to the ground, for want of a cause to drive it forward; and because the natural motion of the air, (being then the only one) will determine it downwards. Let us consider then, how this violent rending of the air by the blow that the bowstring giveth unto the arrow; must needs disorder the little atoms that swim too and fro in it, and that (being heavyer than the air) are continually descending downwards. This disorder, maketh some of the heavyer parts of them, get above others that are lighter than they; which they not abiding, do press upon those that are next them, and they upon their fellows: so that there is a great commorion and undulation caused in the whole mass of air round about the arrow: which must continue some time before it can be settled: and it being determined by the motion of the arrow that way that it slideth, it followeth that all this commotion and undulation of the air, serveth to continue the arrow in its flight. And thus, faster than any part behind can be settled, new ones before are stirred, till the resistance of the medium do grow stronger than the impulse of the moovers.  
Besides this the arrow pressing upon the air before it, with a greater velocity than the air (which is a liquid rare body) can admit, to move all of a piece without breaking: it must of necessity happen that the parts of the air immediately before the arrow, be driven upon others further of, before these can be moved to give place unto them; so that in some places the air becometh condensed, and consequently, in others rarifyed. Which also the wind that we make in walking, (which will shake a paper pinned loosely, at the wall of a chamber towards which we walk) and the cooling air caused by fanning when we are hot, do evidently confirm. So that it can not be doubted, but that condensation and rarefaction of the air, must necessarily follow the motion of any solid body: which being admitted it is evident that a great disorder, and for some remarkable time, must necessarily be in the air; since it can not brook to continue in more rarity or density than is natural unto it. Nor can weighty and light parts agree to rest in an equal height or lowness; which the violence of the arrow's motion forceth them unto for the present. Therefore it can not be denied, but that though the arrow slide away, nevertheless there still remaineth behind it (by this condensation and confusion of parts in the air) motion enough to give impulse unto the arrow, so as to make it continue its motion after the bowstring hath left it. 
4 That the air hath strength enough to continue violent motion in a movable. Dial. 1. of motion pag. 98.   
But here will arise a difficulty: which is, how this clapping in, and undulation of the air, should have strength and efficacy enough, to cause the continuance of so smart a motion, as is an arrows shot, from a bow. To this I need no other argument for an answer, then to produce Galileo's testimony how great a body, one single man's breath alone, can in due circumstances give a rapide motion unto: and withal, let us consider how the arrow, and the air about it are already in a certain degree of velocity; that is to say, the obstacle that would hinder it, from moving that way (namely, the resistance of the air) is taken away; and the causes that are to produce it (namely the determining of the airs, and of the atoms motion that way) are heightened. And then we may safely conclude that the arrow which of itself is indifferent to be moved upwardly or downwards, or forwardly, must needs obey that motion which is caused in it by the atoms, and the airs pressing upon it; either according to the impulse of the string; or (when the string beginneth to flag) according to the beatings that follow the general constitution of nature; or in a mixed manner according to the proportions that these two hold to one an other. Which proportions Galileus in his 4th Dialogue of motion, hath attempted to explicate very ingeniously: but having miss in one of his suppositions; to wit, that forced motion upon an horizontal line, is throughout uniform; his great labours therein, have taken little effect towards the advancing the knowledge of nature, as he pretended: for his conclusions succeed not in experience▪ as Mersenius assureth us after very exact trials; nor can they in their reasons be fitted to nature.  
So that, to conclude this point; I find no difficulty in allowing this motion of the air strength enough to force the movable onwardly, for some time after the first mover is severed from it; (and long after, we see no motions of this nature do endure:) so that we need seek no further cause for the continuance of it: but may rest satisfied upon the whole matter, that since the causes and circumstances our reason suggesteth unto us, are after mature and particular examination proportionable to the effects we see, the doctrine we deliver must be sound and true.  
For the establishing whereof, we need not (considering what we have already said) spend much time in soluing Galileo's arguments against it: 
5 An answer to the first objection; that air is not apt to conserve motion. And how violent mo●● cometh to cease.  seeing that▪ out of what we have set down, the answers to them appear plain enough; for first, we have assigned causes how the air may continue its motion long enough to give as much impression as is needful unto the arrow, to make it go on as it doth. Which motion is not requisite to be near so great in the air behind the arrow (that driveth it on) as what the arrow causeth in the air before it: for by reason of the density of it, it must needs make a greater impression in the air it cutteth, than the air, that causeth its motion, would do of itself without the mediation of the arrow. As, when the force of a hand giveth motion unto a knife to cut a loaf of bread, the knife, by reason of the density and of the figure it hath, makes a greater impression in the loaf, th●n the hand alone would do. And this is the same that we declared in the natural motion of a heavy thing, downwards, unto which we assigned two causes; namely, the beating of the atoms in the air, falling down in their natural coarse, to determine it the way it is to go; and the density of the body, that cutting more powerfully than those atoms can do; giveth (together with their help) a greater velocity unto the movable, than the atoms of themselves can give.  
Nor doth it import that our resolution is against the general nature of rare and dense bodies, in regard of conserving motion; as Galileo objecteth for the reason why dense bodies do conserve motion longer than rare bodies, is, because in regard of their dividing virtue, they get in equal times a greater velocity. Wherefore seeing that velocity is equal unto gravity; it followeth th●t resistance worketh not so much upon them as upon rare bodies; and therefore can not make them cease from motion so easily as it doth rare bodies. This is the general reason for the conservation of motion in dense bodies. But because in our case, there is a continual cause which conserveth motion in the air, the air may continue its motion longer than of itself it would do: not; in the same part of air which Galileus (as it seemeth) did aim at: but in divers parts, in which the movable successively is.  
Which being concluded, let us see how the forced motion cometh to decrease and to be ended. To which purpose we may observe, that the impression which the arrow receiveth from the air that driveth it forwardly, being weaker than that which it received at the first from the string, (by reason, that the air is not so dense, and therefore can not strike so great a blow) the arrow doth not in this second measure of time, (wherein we consider the impulse given by the air only) cut so strongly the air before it, nor press so violently upon it, as in the first measure when the string parting from it did beat it forwardly: for till then, the velocity increaseth in the arrow, as it doth in the string that carrieth it along, which proceedeth from rest at the singers lose from it, to its highest degree of velocity; which is, when it arriveth to the utmost extent of its jerk, where it quitteth the arrow. And therefore, the air now doth not so swiftly, nor so much of it, rebound back from before, and clap itself behind the arrow, to fill the space that else would be left void by the arrows moving forward: and consequently, the blow it giveth in the third measure, to drive the arrow on, can not be so great as the blow was immediately after the strings parting from it; which was in the second measure of time: and therefore, the arrow must needs move slower in the third measure than it did in the second; as formerly it moved slower in the second (which was the airs first stroke) than it did in the first, when the string drove it forwardly. And thus, successively in every moment of time, as the causes grow weaker and weaker by the increase of resistance in the air before, and by the decrease of force in the subsequent air; so, the motion must be slower and slower, till it come to pure cessation. 
6 An answer to the second objection that the air hath no power over heavy bodies.   
As for Galileus second argument; that the air hath little power over heavy things; and therefore he will not allow it to be the cause of continuing forced motions in dense bodies: I wish he could as well have made experience what velocity of motion a man's breath might produce in a heavy bullet lying upon an even, hard, and slippery plain, (for a table would be too short) as he did, how admirable great a one it produced in pendants hanging in the air: and, I doubt not but he would have granted it as powerful in causing horizontal motions, as he found it in the undulations of his pendantes. Which nevertheless, do sufficiently convince how great a power air hath over heavy bodies. As likewise the experience of windgunnes assureth us that air duly applied is able to give greater motion unto heavy bodies then unto light ones. For how can a straw or feather be imagined possibly to fly with half the violence as a bullet of lead doth out of one of those engines? And when a man sucketh a bullet upwardly in a perfectly bored barrel of a gun, which the bullet fitteth exactly (as we have mentioned before) with what a violence doth it follow the breath and ascend to the mouth of the barrel? I remember to have seen a man that was uncautious and sucked strongly that had his foreteeth beaten out by the blow of the bullet ascending.  
This experiment (if well looked into) may peradventure make good a great part of this doctrine we now deliver. For, the air pressing in behind the bullet at the touch hole, giveth it its impulse upwardly; unto which the density of the bullet being added, you have the cause of its swiftness, and violence; (for a bullet of wood or cork, would not ascend so fast and so strongly) and the sucking away of the air before it, taketh away that resistance which otherwise it would encounter with, by the air lying in the way of it: and its following the breath with so great ease, showeth (as we touched before) that of itself it is indifferent to any motion, when nothing presseth upon it to determine it a certain way. 
7 An answer to the third objection, that an arrow should fly faster broadwayes than longwayes▪   
Now to Galileo's last argument; that an arrow should fly faster broadwayes, then longwayes, if the air were cause of its motion: there needeth no more to be said, but that the resistance of the air before, hindereth it as much as the impulse of the air behind helpeth it on; so that nothing is gained in that regard; but much is lost, in respect of the figure; which maketh the arrow unapt to cut the air so well when it flieth broadwayes, as when it is shot longwayes: and therefore the air being weakly cut so much of it can not clap in behind the arrow and drive it on, against the resistance before, which is much greater.  
Thus far, with due respect, and with acknowledging remembrance of the many admirable mysteries of natute which that great man hath taught the world, we have taken liberty to dispute against him: because this difficulty seemeth to have driven him against his Genius, to believe that in such motions there must be allowed a quality imprinted into the moved body to cause them: which our whole scope both in this and in all other occasions where like qualities are urged, is to prove superfluous and ill grounded in nature; and to be but mere terms to confound and leave in the dark whosoever is forced to fly unto them.   

THE THERTEENTH CHAPTER. Of three sorts of violent motion, Reflection, undulation, and Refraction.  

1 That reflection is a kind of violent motion.  THe motion we have last spoken of, because it is ordinarily either in part or wholly contrary to gravity (which is accounted the natural motion of most bodies) useth to be called violent or forced. And thus, you have delivered unto you the natures and causes, both of natural and of forced motion; yet it remaineth that we advertise you of some particular kinds of this forced motion, which seem to be different from it, but indeed are not. As first, the motion of reflection: which if we do but consider how forced motion is made; we shall find that it is nothing else but a forced motion, whose line whereupon it is made, is as it were snapped in two by the encounter of a hard body. For even as we see in a spout of water that is strongly shot against a wall, the water following driveth the precedent parts first to the wall, and afterwards coming themselves to the wall, forceth them again an other way from the wall: right so, the latter parts of the torrent of air, which is caused by the force that occasioneth the forced motion, driveth the former parts, first upon the resistent body, and afterwards again from it. But this is more eminent in light then in any other body, because light doth less rissent gravity; and so observeth the pure course of the stroke, better than any other body; from which, others do for the most part decline some way by reason of their weight.  

2 Reflection is made at equal angles.  Now the particular law of reflection is, that the line incident, and the line of reflection must make equal angles, with that line of the resistent superficies which is in the same superficies with themselves. The demonstration whereof, that great wit Renatus Des Cartes hath excellently set down in his book of Dioptrikes by the example of a ball strucken by a rackett against the earth, or any resisting body: the substance where of is as followeth.  
The motion which we call undulation needeth no further explication: 
3 The causes and properties of undulation.  for it is manifest, that since a pendant, when it is removed from its perpendicular, will restore itself thereunto by the natural force of gravity, and that in so doing it gaineth a velocity, (and therefore can not cease on a sudden,) it must needs be carried, out of the force of that motion, directly the contrary way: until the force of gravity, overcoming the velocity, it must be brought back again to the perpendicular: which being done likewise with velocity, it must send it again towards the place from which it fell at the first. And in this course of motion it must continue for a while, every undulation being weaker than other, until at last it quite ceaseth, by the course of nature settling the air in its due situation according to the natural causes that work upon it. And in this very manner also is performed that undulation which we see in water, when it is stirred from the natural situation of its spherical superficies.  
Galileo hath noted that the time in which the undulations are made which follow one an other of their own accord, is the same in every one of them; and that as much time precisely is take up in a pendants going a very short arch towards the end of its vibration, as was in its going of the greatest arch at the beginning of its motion. The reason whereof seemeth strange to him, and he thinketh it to be an accident natural to the body out of its gravity; and that this effect convinceth, it is not the air which moveth such bodies. Whereas in truth, it is clearly the air which causeth this effect. Because the air striving at each end (where it is furthest from the force of the motion) to quiett itself, getteth at every bout somewhat upon the space; and so, contracteth that into a shorter arch.  
That motion also which we call Refraction, and is manifest to sense, only in light; (though peradventure hereafter more diligent searchers of nature, may likewise find it in such other bodies as are called qualities; as in cold or heat, etc.) is but a kind of Reflection: for there being certain bodies, in which the passages are so well ordered with their resistances, that all the parts of them seem to permit light to pass through them, and yet all parts of them seem to reflect it; when light passeth through such bodies, it findeth at the very entrance of them, such resistances, where it passeth, as serve it for a reflectent body; and yet such a reflectent body, as hindereth not the passage through; but only hindereth the passage from being in a strait line with the line incident. Wherefore the light must needs take a ply as beaten from those parts towards a line drawn from the illuminant, and falling perpendicularly upon the resisting superficies; and therefore is termed by mathematicians, to be refracted or broken towards the Perpendicular. Now at the very going out again of the light, the second superficies (if it be parallel to the former) must needs upon a contrary cause, strike it the contrary way: which is termed from the Perpendicular.  
But before we wade any deeper into this difficulty, 
5 A refutation of Monsieur Des Cartes his explication of refraction.  we can not omit a word of the manner of explicating refraction which Monsieur Des Cartes useth, so witty a one as I am sorry it wanteth success. He therefore following the demonstration above given of reflection; supposeth the superficies which a ball lighteth upon, to be a thin linen cloth, or some other such matter as will break cleanly by the force of the ball striking smartly upon it. And because that superficies resisteth only one way, therefore he inferreth that the velocity of the ball is lessened only one way and not the other: so that the velocity of its motion that way in which it findeth no resistance, must be (after the balls passage through the linen) in a greater proportion to the velocity which it hath the other way where it findeth resistance, than it was before. And therefore the ball will in less time arrive to its period on the one side then on the other: and consequently, it will lean towards that side, unto which the course wherein it findeth no opposition, doth carry it.  
Which to sh●w how it is contrary unto his own principle; let us conceive the cloth CE to be of some thickness, and so draw the line OPEN to determine that thickness. And let us make from B upon ALL, an other Parallelogramme like the Parallelogramme ALL, whose diameter shall be BQ. And it must necessarilly follow that the motion from B to Q, if there were no resistance, were in the same proportion as from A to B. But the proportion of the motion from A to B, is the proportion of CB to CA; that is, it goeth in the same time faster towards D, than it doth towards M, in the proportion which CB hath to CA By which account, the resistance it hath in the way towards D, must also be greater than the resistance it hath in the way towards M, in the proportion which CB hath to CA; and therefore the more tardity must be in the way to D, and not in the way to M; and consequently, the declination must be from Ewardes, and to Mwardes. For where there is most resistance, that way likewise must the tardity be greatest, and the declination must be from that way: but which way the thickness, to be passed in the same time, is most, that way the resistance is greatest: and the thickness is clearly greater towards E, then towards M; therefore, the resistance must be greatest towards E; and consequently the declination from the line BL must be towards M, and not towards E.  
But the truth is, that in his doctrine the ball would go in a strait line as if there were no resistance; unless peradventure towards the contrary side of the cloth, att which it goeth out into the free air: for as the resistance of the cloth is greater in the way towards D, then in the way towards M, (because it passeth a longer line in the same time, as also it did formerly in the air) so likewise is the force that moveth it that way, greater than the force which moveth it the other. And therefore the same proportions that were in the motion, before it came to the resisting passage, will remain also in it: at the least until coming near the side at which it goeth out, the resistance be weakened by the thinnenesse of the resistent there: which because it must needs happen on the side, that hath least thickness, the ball must consequently, turn the other way, where it findeth greatest yielding: and so at its getting out into the free air, it will bend from the greater resistance, in such manner as we have said above.  
Neither do the examples brought by Monsieur Des Cartes, 
6 An answer to the arguments brought in favour of Monsieur Des Cartes his opinion.  and others in maintenance of this doctrine any thing avail them: for when a canon bullet shot into a river, hurteth the people on the other side; it is not caused by refraction, but by reflection, as Monsieur Des Cartes himself acknowledgeth: and therefore, hath no force to prove any thing in refraction; whose laws are divers from those of pure reflection.  
And the same answer serveth against the instance of a muskett bullet shot at a mark under water; which perpetually lighteth higher than the mark, though it be exactly just aimed at. For we knowing that it is the nature of water, by sinking in one place to rise round about, it must of necessity follow that the bullet which in entering hath pressed down the first parts of the water, hath withal thereby put others further off in a motion of rising: and therefore the bullet in its going on must meet with some water swelling upwardly, and must from it receive a ply that way▪ which can not fail of carrying it above the mark it was leveled at. And so we see this effect proceedeth, from reflection or the bounding of the water, and not from refraction. Besides that it may justly be suspected, the shooter took his aim too high, by reason of the marks appearing in the water higher than in truth it is: unless such false aiming were duly prevented.  
Neither is Monsieur Des Cartes his excuse to be admitted, when he saith that light goeth otherwise, than a ball would do, because that in a glass or in water, the etherial substance, which he supposeth to run through all bodies is more efficaciously moved then in air: and that therefore, light must go faster in the glass then in the air, and so turn on that side of the strait line which is contrary to the side that the ball taketh, because the ball goeth not so swiftly. For, (not to dispute of the verity of this proposition) the effect he pretendeth, is impossible: for if the etherial substance in the air before the glass, be slowly moved (the motion of which, he calleth light) it is impossible that the etherial substance in the glass or in the water should be more smartly moved than it. Well it may be less; but without all doubt, the impulse of the etherial substance in the glass can not be greater than its adequate cause which is the motion of the other parts that are in the air precedent to the glass.  
Again; after it is passed the glass, it should return to be a strait line with the line that it made in the air precedent to the glass: seeing that the subsequent air must take off just as much; (and no more) as the glass did add: the contrary whereof experience showeth us.  
Thirdly, in this explication, it would always go one way in the air, and an other way in the glass: whereas all experience testifieth, that in a glass convexe on both sides, it still goeth in the air after its going out, to the same side as it did in the glass; but more. And the like happeneth in glasses on both sides concave. Wherefore it is evident, that it is the superficies of the glass, that is the worker on both sides; and not the substance of the air on the one side, and of the glass on the other.  
And lastly; his answer doth no ways solve our objection, which proveth that the resistance both ways is proportionate to the force that moveth, and by consequence that the thing moved must go strait. As we may imagine would happen, if a bullet were shot sloping through a green mud wall, in which there were many round sticks, so thin set that the bullet mighr pass with ease through them; for as long as the bullet touched none of them (which expresseth his case) it would go strait; but if it touched any of them (which resembleth ours, as by and by will appear) it would glance according to the quality of the touch, and move from the stick in an other line.  
Some peradventure may answer for Monsieur Des Cartes that this subtle body which he supposeth to run through all things is stiff and no ways pliable. But that, is so repugnant to the nature of rarity and so many insuperable inconueniencies do follow out of it; as I can not imagine he will own it: and therefore I will not spend any time in replying thereunto.  

7 The true cause of refraction of light both at its entrance, and at its going out from the reflecting body.  We must therefore seek some other cause of the refraction of light which is made at the entrance of it into a diaphanous body. Which is plainly (as we said before) because the ray striking against the inside of a body it can not penetrate, turneth by reflection towards that side on which the illuminant standeth: and if it findeth clear passage through the whole resistent, it followeth the course it first taketh; if not then it is lost by many reflections too and fro,  
And taking a body of concave surfaces we shall (according to this doctrine of ours) find the causes of refraction just contrary; and accordingly, experience likewise showeth us, the effects to be so too. And therefore since experience agreeth exactly with our rules, we can not doubt but that the principles upon which we go, 
8 A general rule to know the nature of reflections and refractions in all sorts of surfaces.  are well laid.  
But because crooked surfaces may have many irregularities; it will not be amiss to give a rule by which all of them may be brought unto a certainty. And this it is, that reflections from crooked superficieses, are equal to the reflections that are made from such plain superficieses, as are tangents to the crooked ones in that point from whence the reflections are made. Which principal the Masters of Optikes do take out of a Mathematical supposition of the unity of the reflecting point, in both the surfaces; the crooked and the plain. But we take it out of the insensibility, of the difference of so little a part in the two different surfaces, as serveth to reflect a ray of light: for where the difference is insensible in the causes; there likewise the difference is so little in the effects as sense can not judge of them: which is as much as is requisite to our purpose. Now seeing that in the Mathematical supposition, the point where the reflection is made is indifferent to both the surfaces; it followeth that it importeth not whether superficies you take to know the quality of reflection by. This principle then being settled, that the reflection must follow the nature of the tangent surfaces; and it being proved, that in plain surfaces it will happen in such sort as we have explicated, it followeth that in any crooked superficies of what figure soever, the same also will happen.  
Now seeing we have formerly declared, that refractions are but a certain kind of reflections, what we have said here of reflections, may be applied to refractions.  

9 A body of greater parts and greater pores, maketh a greater refraction than one of lesser parts and lesser pores.  But there remaineth yet untouched, one affection more of refractions; which, is, that some diaphanous bodies do in their inward parts reflect more than others (which is, that which we call refraction) as experience showeth us. Concerning which effect, we are to consider that diaphanous bodies, may in their composition have two differences: for some are composed of greater parts and greater pores; others of lesser parts and lesser pores. It is true, there may be other combinations of pores and parts, yet by these two, the rest may be esteemed. As, for the first combination, we see that because the pores are greater, a greater multitude of parts of light may pass together through one poor; and because the parts are greater, likewise a greater multitude of rays may reflect from the same part, and may find the same passage quite throughout the diaphanous body. On the contrary side, in the second combination where both the pores and the parts of the diaphanous body are little, the light must be but little that findeth the same passage.  
Now, that refraction is greater or lesser, happeneth two ways; for it is, either when one diaphanous body reflecteth light at more angles then an other, and by consequence in a greater extent of the superficies; or else, when one body reflecteth light from the same point of incidence in a shorter line and in a greater angle, than an other doth. In both these ways it is apparent, that a body composed of greater parts and greater pores, exceedeth bodies of the opposite kind: for by reason that in the first kind, more light may beat against one part; a body in which that happeneth, will make an appearance from a further part of its superficies: whereas in a body of the other sort; the light that beateth against one of the little parts of it, will be so little, as it will presently vanish. Again, because in the first, the part at the incidence is greater; the surface from which the reflection is made inwardes, hath more of a plain and strait superficies: and consequently doth reflect at a greater angle, then that, whose superficies hath more of inclining.  
But we must not pass from this question, 
10 A confirmation of the former doctrine, out of the nature of bodies that refract light.  without looking a little into the nature of those bodies in which refraction is made: for if they as well as the immediate causes of refraction, do likewise favour us; it will not a little advance the certainty of our determination. To this purpose we may call to mind, how experience showeth us that great refractions are made in smoke, and in mists, and in glasses, and in thick bodied waters; and Monsieur Des Cartes, addeth certain oils, and spirits or strong waters.  
Now most of these we see are composed of little consistent bodies, swimming in an other liquid body. As is plain in smoke and mists: for the little bubbles which rise in the water before they get out of it; and that are smoke when they get into the air; do assure us that smoke is nothing else, but a company of little round bodies, swimming in the air: and the round consistence of water upon herbs, leaves, and twigs in a rind or dew, giveth us also to understand that a mist is likewise a company of little round bodies that sometimes stand, sometimes float in the air, as the wind driveth them. Our very eyes bear witness to us, that the thicker sort of waters are full of little bodies, which is the cause of their not being clear.  
As for glass, the blowing of it convinceth, that the little darts of fire which pierce it every way, do naturally in the melting of it convert it into little round hollow bodies, which in their cooling must settle into parts of the like figure. Then for crystal and other transparent stones which are found in cold places; it can not be otherwise, but that the nature of cold piercing into the main body, and contracting every little part in itself; this contraction must needs leave vacant pores between part and part. And that such transparent stones as are made by heat, have the like effect and property, may be judged out of what we see in bricks and tiles, which are left full of holes by the operation of the fire. And I have seen in bones that have laid a long time in the sun, a multitude of sensible little pores close to one an other, as if they had been formerly stuck all over with subtle sharp needles as close as they could be thrust in by one other. The Chemical oils and spirits which Monsieur Des Cartes speaketh of, are likely to be of the same composition; since that such use to be extracted by violent fires: for a violent fire is made by the conjunction of many rays together; and that must needs cause great pores in the body it worketh upon; and the sticking nature of these spirits, is capable of conserving them.  
Out of all these observations it followeth, that the bodies in which greatest refractions do happen, are compounded (as we have said) of great parts, and great pores. And therefore, by only taking light to be such a body, as we have described it to be, where we treated of the nature of it; it is evident, that the effect which we have expressed, must necessarily follow by way of reflection: and that refraction is nothing else but a certain kind of reflection.  
Which last assertion, is likewise convinced out of this; that the same effects proceed from reflection as from refraction: for by reflection a thing may be seen greater than it is; in a different place from the true one where it is: colours may be made by reflection, as also, gloating light; and fire likewise; and peradventure all other effects which are caused by refraction, may as well as these, be performed by reflection. And therefore it is evident, they must be of the same nature; seeing that children are the resemblances of their parents.   

THE FOURETEENTH CHAPTER. Of the composition, qualities, and generation of Mixed bodies.  

1 The connexion of this chapter with the rest, and the Author's intent in it,  Having now declared the virtues by which fire and earth work upon one an other, and upon the rest of the elements; which is, by light, and by the motions we have discoursed of. Our task shall be in this chapter first to observe what will result out of such action of theirs: and next to search into the ways and manner of compassing and performing it. Which latter we shall the more easily attain unto, when we first know the end that their operation leveleth at. In this pursuit we shall find that the effect of the Elements combinations, by means of the motions that happen among them; is a long pedigree of compounded qualities and bodies: wherein, the first combinations (like marriages) are the breeders of the next more composed substances: and they again are the parents of others in greater variety: and so are multiplied without end; for the further this work proceedeth, the more subjects it maketh for new business of the like kind.  
To descend in particular unto all these, is impossible. And to look further than the general heads of them, were superfluous and troublesome in this discourse; wherein I aim only at showing what sorts of things, in common, may the done by bodies: that if hereafter, we meet with things of an other nature and strain, we may be sure, they are not the offspring of bodies and of quantity; which is, the main scope of what I have designed here. And to do this with confidence and certainty, requireth of necessity this leisurely and orderly proceeding that hitherto we have used, and shall continue to the end: for, walking thus softly, we have always one foot upon the ground; so as the other may be sure of firm footing before it settle. Whereas, they that for more haste will leap over rugged passages and broken ground; when both their feet are in the air, can not help themselves, but must light as chance throweth them.  
To this purpose than we may consider, that the qualities of bodies in common are of three sorts: for they are belonging, either to the constitution of a compounded body, or else, to the operation of it; and the operation of a body, is of two kinds; the one, upon other bodies, the other, upon sense. The last of these three sorts of qualities, shall be handled in a peculiar chapter by themselves. Those of the second sort, whereby they work upon other bodies, have been partly declared in the former chapters, and will be further discoursed of in the rest of this first treatise: so as that which remaineth for the present, is to fall upon the discourse of such qualities as concur to the constitution of bodies; with an aim to discover, whether (or no) they may be effected by the several mixtures of rarity and density, in such sort as is already declared. To which end, we are to consider in what manner these two primary differences of bodies may be joined together: and what effects such conjunction will produce.  
As for their conjunction: 
2 That there is a least cise of bodies, and that this least cise is found in fire.  to deliver the nature of it entirely, we must begin from the very root of it, and consider how the Universe being finite (which Mr. White hath demonstrated in the second knot of his first Dialogue) there can not be an infinite number of bodies in it: for Geometricians show us how the least quantity that is, may be repeated so often as would exceed any the greatest determinate quantity whatsoever. Out of which it followeth, that although all the other bodies of the world were no bigger than the least quantity that can be designed; yet they being infinite in number, would be greater than the whole Universe that containeth them. And therefore, of necessity there must be some least body, or rather, some least cise of bodies: which in compounded bodies, is not to be expected: for, their least parts being compounded, must needs include compounding parts less than themselves. We must then look for this least cise of bodies in the Elements; which of all bodies are the simplest. And among them, we must pitch upon that, wherein is greatest divisibility, and which consequently is divided into least parts; that is, fire: so as we may conclude that among all the bodies in the world, that which of its own nature hath an aptitude to be least, must be fire.  
Now, 
3 The first conjunction of parts is in bodies of least cise; and it is made by the force of Quantity.  the least body of fire, be it never so little, is yet divisible into less. What is it then that maketh it be one? To determine this; we must resort unto the nature of Quantity: whose formal notion and essence is; To be divisible, which signifieth, that many may be made, of it; but that of which many may be made, is not yet many, out of this very reason; that many may be made of it. But, what is not many, is one. Therefore what hath quantity; is, by mere having quantity, actually and formally, as well one, as it hath the possibility of being made many. And consequently, the least body of fire, by having quantity, hath those parts which might be many, actually one. And this is the first conjunction of parts that is to be considered in the composition of bodies: which though it be not an actual joining of actual parts; yet it is a formal conjunction of what may be many. 
4 The second sort of conjunction is compactednesse in simple Elements, and it proceedeth from density.   
In the next place we may consider; how seeing the least bodies that are, be of fire; it must needs follow, that the least parts of the other Elements must be bigger than they. And consequently, the possible parts of those least parts of the other Elements must have something to conserve them together, more than is found in fire. And this, because Elements are purely distinguished by rarity and density is strait concluded to be density. And thus, we have found; that as quantity is the cause of the possible parts being one, so density is the cause of the like parts sticking together: which appeareth in the very definition of it, for, to be less divisible, (which is the notion of density) speaketh a resistance to division, 
5 The third conjunction is of parts of different Elements, and it proceedeth from quantity and density together.  or a sticking together.  
Now let us examine how two parts of different Elements are joined together, to make a compound. In this conjunction we find both the effects we have already touched: for, two such parts must make one; and moreover, they must have some resistance to divisibility. The first of these effects we have already assigned unto the nature of quantity. And it being the formal effect of quantity; it can not (wheresoever it is found) have any other formal cause then quantity: and therefore, either the two little parts of different Elements, do not become one body: or if they do, we must agree that it is by the nature of quantity, which worketh as much in heterogeneal parts, as it doth in homogeneal ones. And it must needs do so: because Rarity and Density (which are the proper differences of Quantity) can not change the common nature of Quantity, that is their Genus: which by being so to them, must be univocally in them both. And this effect cometh precisely from the pure notion of the Genus: and consequently, must be seen as well in two parts of different natures, as in two parts of the same nature: but in parts of the same nature, which once were two, and afterwards become one; there can be no other reason why they are one, than the very same for which those parts that were never separated (but that may be separated) are likewise one: and this, most evidently, is the nature of quantity.  
Experience seemeth to confirm thus much; when pouring water out of a basin, some of it will remain sticking to the sides, of the mettle: for if the quantity of the basin, and of the water, had not been one and the same by its own nature; the water (considering the pliableness of its parts) would certainly have come all away, and have glided from the unevenness of the basin, by the attractive unity of its whole, and would have preserved the unity of its quantity within itself, rather than by sticking to the basin, have suffered division in its own quantity; which we are sure was one, whiles the water was altogether in the basin: but that, both the basin and the water making but one quantity; and a division being unavoidable in that one quantity; it was indifferent, in regard of the quantity considered singly by itself, where this division should be made, whether in the parts of the basin, or in the parts of the water: and then, the other circumstances determined it in that part of the water which was nearest to the joining of it with the basin.  
The second effect (which was resistance to divisibility;) we assigned unto density. And of that same cause, must also depend the like effect in this case of the sticking together of the two parts of different Elements, when they are joined to one an other: for if the two parts, whereof one is dense, the other is rare, do not exceed the quantity of some other part of one homogeneal rare Element for the dividing whereof, such a determinate force, and no less can suffice: then, seeing that the whole composed of these two parts is not so divisible as the whole consisting of that one part; the assigned force will not be able to divide them. Wherefore it is plain, that if the rare part had been joined to an other rare part in steed of the dense one it is joined unto; it had been more easily dividable from that, than now it is from the dense part. And by consequence it sticketh more closely to the dense part, than it would to an other of its own nature.  
Out of what we have said, 
6 The reason why liquid bodies do easily join together; and dry ones difficultly.  a step is made us to understand why soft and liqnid bodies do easily join and incorporate into one continued body; but hard and dry bodies so difficulty, as by experience we find to be true. Water with water, or wine either with other wine or with water, so uniteth, that it is very hard to part them: but sand or stones can not be made to stick together without very great force and industry. The reasons whereof, must necessarily depend of what we have said above. To wit that two bodies can not touch one an other, without becoming one: and, that if two bodies of one degree of density do touch, they must stick together according to the force of that degree of density. Out of which two, is manifestly inferred, that if two hard things, should come to touch, they must needs be more difficultly separated then two liquid things. And consequently, they can not come to touch, without as much difficulty, as that whereby they are made one.  
But to deduce this more particularly; 
7 That no two hard bodies can touch one an other immediately.  let us consider, that all the little surfaces, by which one hard body may be conceived to touch an other (as for example, when a stone lieth upon a stone) must of necessity be either plane, or concave, or convexe. Now if a plane superficies should be supposed to touch an other plane one coming perpendicularly to it; it must of necessity be granted to touch it as soon in the middle as on the sides. Wherefore, if there were any air (as of necessity there must be) betwixt the two surfaces before they touched; it will follow that the air which was in the middle, must have fled quite out from between the two surfaces, as soon as any part of the surfaces do touch; that is, as soon as the air which was between the utmost edges of the surfaces did fly out; and by consequence it must have moved in an instant.  
But if a plane surface be said to touch a convexe surface; it toucheth it only by a line, (as Mathematicans demonstrate) or only by a point. But, to touch by a line or a point, is in truth, not to touch by the form or notion of Quantity, (which requireth divisibility in all that belongeth unto it;) and die consequence among bodies it is not to touch; and so, one such surface doth not touch the other.  
Now, for a plain surface to touch a concave; every man seeth is impossible. Likewise, for two convexe surfaces to touch one an other, they must be allowed to touch either in a line or in a point, which we have showed not to be a physical touching. And if a convexe surface should be said to touch a concave; they must touch all at once as we said of plane surfaces; and therefore the same impossibility will arise therein: so that it is evident, that no two surfaces, moving perpendicularly towards one an other, can come to touch one an other, if neither of them yieldeth, and changeth its hue.  
Now then, if it be supposed that they come slidingly one over an other in the same line; whereby, first the very tips of the edges come to touch one an other; and still as you shove the upermost on forwardly, and that it slideth over more of the nether surface, it gaineth to touch more of it. I say that neither in this case do they touch immediately one an other: for as soon as the two first parts should meet, if they did touch, and that there were no air between them; they must presently become one quantity or body, as we have declared; and must stick firmly together, according to their degree of density; and consequently, could not be moved on, without still breaking a sunderatt every impulse, as much of the massy body, as were already made one by their touching.  
And if you should say they did not become one; and yet allow them to touch immediately one an other without having any air or fluid body between them; then if you suppose them to move onwardly upon these terms; they would be changed locally, without any intrinsical change: which in the book De Mundo (as we have formerly alleged) is demonstrated to be impossible.  
There remaineth only a third way for two hard surfaces to come together; which is, that first they should rest sloping one upon an other, and make an angle where they meet (as two lines, that cut one an other, do in their point of their intersection) and so contain as it were a wedge of air between them, which wedge they should lessen by little and little, through their moving towards one an other at their most distant edges (whiles the touching edges, are like immoveable centres that the others turn upon) till at length they shut out all the air, and close together, like the two legs of a compass.  
But neither is it possible that this way they should touch, for after their first touch by one line (which neither is in effect a touching, as we have showed) no other parts of them can touch, though still they approach nearer and nearer, until their whole surfaces do entirely touch at one: and therefore, the air must in this case leap out in an instant a greater space, then if the surfaces came perpendicularly to one an other; for here it must fly from one extremity to the other: whereas, in the former case, it was to go but from the middle to each side.  
And thus it is evident, that no two bodies can arrive to touch one an other, unless one of them at the least, have a superficies pliable to the superficies of the other; that is, unless one of them be lost, which is, to be liquid in some degree. Seeing then, that by touching, bodies do become one; and that liquidity, is the cause and means whereby bodies arrive to touch; we may boldly conclude that two liquid bodies do most easily and readily become one; and next to two such, a liquid and a hard body, are soon united: but two hard ones most difficultly.  
To proceed then with our reflections upon the composition of bodies, 
8 How mixed bodies ar● framed in general.  and upon what resulteth out of the joining and mixture of their first differences Rarity and Density; we see, how if a liquid substance happeneth to touch a dry body it sticketh easily thereunto. Then consider, that there may be so small a quantity of such a liquid body, as it may be almost impossible for any natural agent to divide it further into any less parts; and suppose that such a liquid part is between two dry parts of a dense body, and sticking to them both, becometh in the nature of a glue to hold them together: will it not follow out of what we have said, that these two dense parts will be as hard to be severed from one an other, as the small liquid part by which they stick together is to be divided? So that, when the viscous ligaments which in a body do hold together the dense parts, are so small and subtle, as no force we can apply unto them can divide them, the adhesion of the parts must needs grow then inseparable. And therefore, we use to moisten dry bodies, to make them the more easily be divided; whereas those that are overmoyst, are of themselves ready to fall in pieces. 
9 The cause of the several degrees of solidity in mixed bodies.  And thus you see how in general, bodies are framed.  
Out of which discourse, we may balance the degrees of solidity in bodies, for all bodies being composed of humid and dry parts, we may conceive either kind of those parts, to be bigger or lesser, or to be more rare or more dense. Now if the dry parts of any body, be extreme little and dense; and the moist parts that join the dry ones together, be very great and rare; then that body will be very easy to be dissolved. But if the moist parts which glue together such extreme little and dense dry parts, be either lesser in bulk or not so rare; then the body composed of them will be in a stronger degree of consistence. And if the moist parts which serve for this effect; be in an excess of littleness and withal dense; then, the body they compose will be in the highest degree of consistence that nature can frame.  
On the other side; if you glue together great dry parts, which are moderately dense and great, by the admixtion of humid parts that are of the least cise in bulk, and dense withal; then the consistence will decrease from the height of it by how much the parts are greater, and the density less. But if unto dry parts of the greatest cise, and in the greatest remissness of density, you add humid parts that are both very great and very rare, than the composed body will prove the most easily dissolueable of all that nature affordeth.  

10 The rule whereunto are reduced all the several combinations of Elements in compounding of mixed bodies.  After this, casting our eyes a little further towards the composition of particular bodies; we shall find still greater mixtures, the further we go▪ for as the first and simplest compounded bodies, are made of the four Elements; so, others are made of these; and again a third sort of them: and so, onwardly, according as by motion, the parts of every one are broken in sunder, and mingled with others. Those of the first order, must be of various tempers according to the proportions of the Elements, whereof they are immediately made. As for example, such a proportion of fire to the other three Elements, will make one kind of simple body, and an other proportion will make an other kind: and so throughout, by various combinations and proportions among all the Elements.  
In the effecting of which work, it will not be amiss to look a little upon nature; and observe how she mingleth and tempereth different bodies one with an other, whereby she begetteth that great variety of creatures which we see in the world. But because the degrees of composition are infinite, according to the increase of number, we will contain ourselves within the common notions of excess in the four primary components, for if we should descend once to specify any determinate proportions, we should endanger losing ourselves in a wood of particular natures, which belong not to us at present to examine. Then taking the four Elements as materials to work upon: let us first consider how they may be varied, that differing compositions may result out of their mixtures. I conceive that all the ways of varying the Elements in this regard, may be reduced to the several cises of bigness, of the parts of each Element, that enter into the composition of any body, and to the number of those parts: for certainly no other can be imagined, unless it were variety of figure.  
But that can not be admitted to belong in any constant manner to those least particles where of bodies are framed; as though determinate figures were in every degree of quantity due to the natures of Elements, and therefore, the Elements would conserve themselves in those figures, as well in their least atoms, as in massy bulk: for seeing how these little parts are shuffled together without any order; and that all liquids easily join, and take the figures which the dense ones give them; and that they again, justling one an other, do crush themselves into new shapes, which their mixture with the liquid ones, maketh them yield the more easily unto: it is impossible that the Elements should have any other natural figure in these their least parts, than such as chance giveth them. But that one part must be bigger than an other is evident; for the nature of rarity and density giveth it: the first of them, causing divisibility into little parts, and the latter, hindering it.  
Having then settled in what manner the Elements may be varied in the composition of bodies: 
11 Earth and water are the basis of all permanent mixed bodies.  let us now begin our mixture. In which, our ground to work upon must be earth and water; for only these two are the basis of permanent bodies, that suffer our senses to take hold of them, and that submit themselves to trial: whereas, if we should make the predominant Element to be air or fire, and bring in the other two solid ones under their jurisdiction to make up the mixture, the compound resulting out of them, would be either in continual consumption, (as ordinary fire is) or else imperceptible to our eyes or touch, and therefore, not a fit subject for us to discourse of, since the other two afford us enough to speculate upon. Peradventure our smell might take some cognisance of a body so composed, or the effect of it taken in by respiration, might in time show itself upon our health: but it concerneth not us now to look so far; our design requireth more maniable substances.  
Of which, 
12 What kind of bodies those are where water is the basis, and earth the predominant Element over the other two.  let water be the first; and with it we will mingle the other three Elements, in excess over one an other by turns; but still, all of them overswayed by a predominant quantity of water: and then, let us see what kind of bodies will result out of such proportions. First, if earth prevail above fire and air, and arrive next in proportion to the water, a body of such a composition, must needs prove hardly liquid, and not easy to let its parts run a sunder, by reason of the great proportion of so dense a body as earth that holdeth it together. Yet some inclination it will have to fluidness, by reason the water is predominant over all; which also will make it be easily divisible, and give very little resistance to any hard thing that shall be applied to make way through it. In a word, this mixture maketh the constitution of mud, dirt, honey, butter and such like things where the main parts are great ones. And such, are the parts of earth and water in themselves.  
Let the next proportion of excess in a watery compound, 
13 Of those bodies, where water being the basis air is the predominant Element.  be of air, which when it prevaileth, it incorporateth itself chiefly with Earth, for the other Elements would not so well retain it. Now, because its parts are subtle (by reason of the rarity it hath) and sticking, (because of its humidity) it driveth the Earth and water likewise into lesser parts. The result of such a mixture is, that the parts of a body compounded by it are close, catching, flowing slowly, glibbe, and generally it will burn, and be easily converted into flame.  
Of this kind, are those which we call oily or unctuous bodies whose great parts are easily separated, (that is, they are easily divisible in bulk,) but the small ones very hardly. Next the smallness, and well working of the parts, by means of the airs penetrating every dense one, and sticking close to every one of them, and consequently, joining them without any unevenness; causeth that there can be no ruggedness in it; and therefore, it is glibbe: in like manner as we see plaster or starch become smooth when they are well wrought. Then, the humidity of it causeth it to be catcking, and the shortness of every part, maketh that where it sticketh, it is not easily parted thence. Now, the rarity of air next unto fire, admitteth it to be (of all the other Elements) most easily, brought to the height of fire, by the operation of fire upon it. And therefore, oils are the proper food of that Element. And accordingly we see, that if a drop of oil be spilt upon a sheet of paper, and the paper be set on fire at a corner; as the fire cometh near the oil, the oil will disperse and spread itself upon the paper to a broader compass than it had; which is, because the heat rarifyeth it; and so, in oil itself the fire rarifying the air, maketh it penetrate the earthy parts adjoined unto it, more than it did; and so subtiliseth them, till they be reduced to such a height as they are within the power of fire to communicate his own nature unto them: and thus, he turneth them into fire, and carrieth them up in his flame.  

14 What kind of bodies result, where water is the basis and fire the predominant Element.  But if fire be predominant over earth and air in a watery compound; it maketh the body so proportioned, to be subtle, rare, penetrative, hot in operation, light in weight, and subject to burn. Of this kind are all sorts of wines, and distilled spirits, commonly called strong waters or Aquavites; in latin Aquae ardentes. These will lose their virtues merely by remaining uncovered in the air; for fire doth not incorporate strongly with water; but, if it find means, raiseth itself into the air; as we see in the smoke of boiling water which is nothing else but little bodies of fire, that entering into the water, do rarify some parts of it; but have no inclination to stay there and therefore as fast as they can get out, they fly away; but the humid parts of the water, which they have rarifyed (being of a sticking nature) do join themselves unto them, and ascend in the air as high as the fiery atoms have strength to carry them: which when it faileth them, that smoke falleth down in a dew, and so becometh water again as it was. All which one may easily discern in a glass vessel of water set over the fire; in which one may observe the fire come in at the bottom, and presently swim up to the top like a little bubble, and immediately rise from thence in smoke: and that, will at last convert itself into drops and settle upon some solid substance thereabouts.  
Of these fiery spirits, some are so subtle, as of themselves they will vanish, and leave no residue of a body behind them; and Alchemissts profess to make them so etherial and volatile, that being poured out of a glass from some reasonable height, they shall never reach the ground: but that before they come thither, they will be so rarifyed by that little motion, as they shall grow invisible like the air, and dispersing themselves all about in it, they will fill the chamber with the smell of that body which can no longer be seen.  
The last excess in watery bodies, 
15 Of those bodies, where water is in excess, it alone being both the basis, and the predominant Element.  must be of water itself, which is, when so little a proportion of any of the other is mingled with it, as is hardly perceptible: out of this composition do arise all those several sorts of ivices or liquors, which we commonly call waters: which by their mixture with the other three Elements, have peculiar properties beyond simple Elemental water. The general qualities whereof, we shall not need any further to express, because, by what we have already said of water in common, they are sufficiently known.  
In our next survey, 
16 Of those bodies where Earth alone is the basis, and also the predominant in excess over the other thre● Elements.  we will take earth for our ground to work upon, as hitherto we have done water: which if in any body, it be in the utmost excess of it beyond all the other three; then, rocks and stones will grow out of it; whose dryness ad hardness may assure us, that Earth swayeth in their composition, with the least allay that may be. Nor doth their lightness (in respect of some other Earthy compositions) impeach this resolution; for that proceedeth from the greatness and multiplicity of pores; wherewith their dryness causeth them to abound and hindereth not, but that their real solid parts may be very heavy.  
Now if we mingle a considerable proportion of water with earth; 
17 Of those bodies where Earth is the basis, and water the predomin●t Element over the other two.  so, as to exceed the fire and air, but still inferior to the earth; we shall produce metals: whose great weight, with their ductility and malleability, plainly telleth us, that the smallest of waters gross parts, are the glue that holdeth the earthy dense ones together: such weight, belonging to earth, and that easy changing of parts, being most proper to water. Quicksilver (that is the general matter, whereof all the metals are immediately composed) giveth us evidence hereof; for fire worketh upon it with the same effect as upon water. And the calcination of most of the metals, proveth that fire can easily part and consume the glue by which they were closed and held together: which therefore, must be rather of a watery then of an airy substance. Likewise the glibbenesse of Mercury, and of melted metals, without catching or sticking to other substances, giveth us to understand that this great temper of a moist Element with Earth, is water, and not air; and that the watery parts are comprised, and as it were shut up within the earthy ones: for air catcheth and sticketh notably to all things it toucheth, and will not be imprisoned; the divisibity of it being exceeding great, though in never so short parts.  
Now if air mingleth itself with earth, 
18 Of those bodies, where earth being the basis air is the predominant.  and be predominant over water and fire; it maketh such an oily and fat soil, as husbandmen account their best mould; which receiving a betterment from the sun and temperate heat, assureth us of the concourse of the air: for wheresoever su●h heat is, air can not fail of accompanying it, or of being effected by it: and the richest of such earth, (as port earth and marvel) will with much fire grow more compacted, and stick closer together than it did; as we see in baking them into pots or fine bricks. Whereas, if water were the glue between the dense parts fire would consume it and crumble them a sunder, as it doth in those bodies it calcineth And excess of fire will bring them to vitrification; which still confirmeth that air aboundeth in them; for it is the nature of air to stick so close where once it is kneaded in, as it can not be separated without extreme difficulty. And to this purpose, the viscous holding together of the parts of glass when it is melted, showeth evidently that air aboundeth in vitrifyed bodies.  

19 Of those bodies, where Earth being the basis, fire is the predominant.  The last mixture we are to meddle with, is of fire with earth, in an overruling proportion over air and water. And this I conceive produceth those substances, which we may term coagulated ivices, and which the latins do call Succi concreti: whose first origine, seemeth to have been liquors; that have been afterwards dried by the force either of heat, or of cold. Of this nature are all kind of saltes, nitres sulfurs, and divers sorts of bitumen. All which, easily bewray the relics an defects of fire left in them; some more, some less, according to their degrees.  

20 All the second qualities of mixed bodies, arise from several combinations of the first qualities: and are at last resolved into several degrees of rarity and density.  And thus, we have in general, deduced from their causes, the complexions of those bodies, whereof the bulk of the world subjected to our use, consisteth; and which serve for the production and nourishment of living creatures, both animal and vegetable. Not so exactly (I confess) nor so particularly, as the matter in itself, or as a treatise confined to that subject, would require: yet sufficiently for our intent. In the performance whereof, if more accurate searchers of nature shall find that we have peradventure been mistaken in the minute delivering of some particular body's complexion; their very correction (I dare boldly say) will justify our principal scope: which is, to show that all the great variety we see among bodies, ariseth out of the commixtion of the first qualities and of the Elements: for they will not be able to correct us, upon any other grounds than those we have laid.  
As may easily be perceived, if we cast a summary view upon the qualities of composed bodies. All which we shall find to spring out of rarity, and density, and to savour of their origine: for the most manifest qualities of bodies may be reduced to certain pairs opposite to one an other. As namely some are liquid and flowing, others are consistent; some are soft others hard; some are fatty, viscous, and smooth; others lean, gritty, and rough; some gross, othert subtle; some tough, others brittle: and the like. Of which the liquid, the soft, the fat and the viscous, are so manifestly derived from rarity, that we need not take any further pains to trace out their origine: and the like is of their contraries, from the contrary cause; to wit of those bodies that are consistent, hard, lean, and gritty, all which do evidently spring from density. As for smoothness, we have already showed how that proceedeth from an airy or oily nature; and by consequence, from a certain degree of rarity. And therefore roughness (the contrary of it) must proceed from a proportionable degree of density. Toughness, is also a kind of ductility, which we have reduced to watrynesse, that is, to an other degree of rarity; and consequently brittleness must arise from the contrary degree of density. Lastly, grossness and subtleness do consist in a difficulty or facility to be divided into small parts, which appeareth to be nothing else, but a certain determination of rarity and density. And thus, we see; how the several complexions of bodies, are reduced to the four Elements that compound them: and the qualities of those bodies, to the two primary differences of quantative things by which the Elements are diversified.  
And out of this discourse it will be evident, 
21 That in the planets and stars, there is a like variety of mixed bodies caused by light as here upon Earth.  that these complexions and qualities, though in divers degrees, must of necessity be found wheresoever there is any variation in bodies: for seeing there can be no variation in bodies, but by rarity and density; and that the pure degrees of rarity and density, do make heat, cold, moisture, and dryness, and (in a word) the four Elements; it is evident, that wheresoever there is variety of bodies, there must be the four Elements; though peradventure far unlike these mixed bodies which we call Elements. And again, because these Elements can not consist without motion; and because by motion they do of necessity, produce mixed bodies, and forge out those qualities, which we come from explicating; it must by like necessity, follow▪ that wheresoever there is any variety of active and passive bodies; there mixed bodies likewise must reside of the same kinds, and be endued with qualities of the like natures, as those we have treated of; though peradventure, such as are in other places of the world remote from us, may be in a degree far different from ours.  
Since then, it can not be denied, but that there must be notable variety of active and passive bodies wheresoever there is light: neither can it be denied, but that in all those great bodies from which light is reflected unto us, there must be a like variety of complexions and of qualities, and of bodies tempered by them, as we find here in the orb we live in. Which systeme; how different it is from that which Aristotle and the most of the school have delivered us, as well in the evidencies of the proofs for its being so; as in the position and model of it; I leave unto the prudent readers to consider and judge.  
Out of what hath been already said, 
22 In what manner the Elements do work upon one an other, in the composition of mixed bodies: and in particular fire which is the most active.  it is not hard to discover in what manner the composition of bodies is made. In effecting of which; the main hinge whereon that motion dependeth, is fire or heat: as it likewise is, in all other motions whatsoever. Now because the composition of a mixed, body proceedeth f●om the action of one simple body or element upon the others: it will not be amiss to declare by some example how this work● passeth: for th●t purpose, let us examine how fire or heat works upon his f●llowes.  
By what w● have formerly delivered; it is clear that fire streaming out from its centre, and diffusing itself abroad, so as to fill the circumference of a larger circle, it must needs follow, that the beams of it are most condensed and compacted together near the centre; and the further they stream from the centre, the more thin and rarifyed they must grow: yet this is with such moderation, as we can not any where discern that one beam doth not touch an other; and therefore, the distances must be very small. Now let us suppose that fire happeneth to be in a viscous and tenacious body; and then consider what will happen in this case: of one side, the fire spreadeth itself abroad; on the other side, the parts of the tenacious body being moist (as we have formerly determined) their edges on all hands will stick fast to the dry beams of the fire that pass between them. Then they stretching wider and wider from one an other must needs draw with them the parts of that tenacious body which stick unto them; and stertch them into a greater wideness or largeness than they enjoyed before, from whence it followeth, that (seeing there is no other body near thereabouts, but they two) either there must be a vacuity left, or else the tenacious body must hold and fill a greater space than it did before; and consequently be more rare.  
Contrariwise, if any of the other Elements be stronger than fire, the denser Elements break off, from their continued stream, the little parts of fire, which were gotten into their greater parts: and sticking on all sides about them, they do so enclose them that they have no more semblance of fire: and if afterwards by any accident there cometh a great compression, they force them to lose their natural rarity, and to become some other Element. Thus it fareth with fire, both in acting and in suffering. And the same course, we have in both these regards expressed of it, passeth likewise in the rest of the Elements to the proportion of their contrarieties.  
Hence it followeth, that when fire meeteth with humidity in any body, it divideth and subtiliseth it, and disperseth it gently, and in a kind of equal manner through the whole body it is in, (if the operation of it be a natural and a gentle one) and so driveth it into other parts, which at the same time it prepareth to receive it by subtilising likewise those parts. And thus moderate fire, maketh humour in very small parts to incorporate itself in an even or uniform manner with the dry parts it meeteth withal: which being done whether the heat doth afterwards continue, or that cold succeedeth in lieu of it, the effect must of necessity be, that the body thus composed, be bound up and fastened, more or less according to the proportion of the matter it is made of, and of the Agents that work upon it, and of the time they employ about it. This is every day seen, in the ripening of fruits and in other frequent works, as well of art as of nature, and is so obvious; and sensible to any reasonable observation that it is needless to enlarge myself much upon this subject. 
23 A particular declaration touching the generation of metals.   
Only, it will not be amiss, for example's sake, to consider the progress of it in the composing or augmenting of metals, or of earths of divers sorts: first heat (as we have said) draweth humour out of all the bodies it worketh upon: then if the extracted humour be in quantity and the steames of it do happen to come together in some hollow place fit to assemble them into greater parts; they are condensed and they fall down in a liquid and running body. These steames being thus corporifyed, the body, resulting out of them, maketh itself in the earth a channel to run in: and if there be any loose parts in the channel, they mingle themselves with the running liquor: and though there be none such, yet in time the liquor itself looseneth the channel all about, and imbibeth into its own substance the parts it raiseth. And thus, all of them compacted together, do roll along till they tumble into some low place, out of which they can not so easily get to wander further. When they are thus settled, they do the more easily receive into them, and retain such heat as is every where to be met withal, because it is diffused more or less through the earth. This heat, if it be sufficient, digesteth it into a solid body: the temper of cold likewise concurring in its measure to this effect. And according to the variety of the substances whereof the first liquor was made, and which it afterwards drew along with it; the body that resulteth out of them is diversified.  
In confirmation of all which, they that deal in mines, tell us they use to find metals oftentimes mingled with stones; as also, coagulated ivices with both; and earths of divers natures, with all three; and they with it, and one with an other among themselves. And that sometimes they find the mines not yet consolidated and digested throughly into mettle; when by their experience knowing after how many years they will be ripe, they shut them up again till then.  
Now if the hollow place wherein the body stayed (which at the first was liquid and rolling) be not at once filled by it, but it taketh up only part of it; and the same liquor continueth afterwards to flow thither▪ than this body is augmented, and groweth bigger and bigger. And although the liquors should come at several times; yet, they become not therefore two several bodies, but both liquors do grow into one body; for the wet parts of the adventitious liquor, do mollify the sides of the body already baked; and both of them being of a like temper and cognation, they easily stick and grow together.  
Out of this discourse it followeth evidently, that in all sorts of compounded bodies whatsoever, there must of necessity, be actually comprised sundry parts of divers natures: for otherwise, they would be but so many pure degrees of rarity and density; that is, they would be but so many pure Elements, and each of them have but one determinate virtue or operation.   

THE FIFTEENTH CHAPTER. Of the dissolution of Mixed bodies.  
THus much for composition of bodies. Their dissolution is made three ways: 
1 Why some bodies are brittle, and others tough, or apt to withstand outward violence, the first instrument to dissolve mixed bodies.  either by fire, or by water, or by some outward violence. We will begin with examining how this last is done. To which end we may consider▪ that the unity of any body consisting in the connexion of its parts; it is evident that the force of motion, if it be exercised upon them, must of necessity separate them, as we see in breaking, cutting, filing, drawing a sunder, and the like.  
All these motions, because they are done by gross bodies, do require great parts to work upon, and are easily discerned how they work: so that it is not difficult to find the reason why some hard bodies break easily, and others with much ado. The first of which are called brittle, the others tough. For if you mark it, all breaking requireth that bending hold precede: which on the one side compresseth the parts of the bended body, and condenseth them into a lesser room than they possessed before; and on the otherside stretcheth them out, and maketh them take up more place. This requireth some fluid or movable substance to be within the body; else, it could not be done; for without such help, the parts could not remove. Therefore such hard bodies as have most fluid parts in them, are most flexible, that is are toughest. And those which have fewest, though they become thereby hardest to have impression made upon them, yet if the force be able to do it, they rather yield to break then to bend; and thence, are called brittle.  
Out of this we may infer, that some bodies may be so suddenly bend as that thereby they break asunder; whereas if they were leisurely and gently dealed withal, they would take what ply one desireth. And likewise that there is no body (be it never so brittle and hard) but that it will bend a little (and indeed more than one would expect) if it be wrought upon with time and dexterity; for there is none but containeth in it some liquid parts, more or less: even glass and brick. Upon which occasion I remember, how once in a great storm of wind, I saw the high slender brick chimneys of the King's house at St james (one winter when (the ourt lay there) bend from the wind like bows, and shark exceedingly, and totter. And at other times I have seen some very high, and pointy spire steeples do the like. And I have been assured the like of the whole pile of a high castle, standing in a gullet in the course of the wind; (namely the castle of Wardour) by those who have often seen it shake notably in a fierce wind.  
The reason of all which may be deduced out of what we have said above: for seeing that the bending of a body, maketh the spirits or humours that are within it, to sally forth; it is clear that if the violence which forceth it, be not so sudden, nor the motion it receiveth, be not so quick, but that the moisture may oose gently out; the body will bend, still more and more, as their absence glueth it leave. But if the motion that is wrought in it be too quick; then the spirits not having time allowed them to go leisurely and gently out, do force their prison, and break out with a violence; and so the body is snapped into two.  
Here peradventure some remembering what we have said in an other place; 
2 How outward violence doth work upon the most compacted bodies.  namely, that it is the shortness and littleness of the humid parts in a body, which maketh it stick together; and that this shortness may be in so high a degree, as nothing can come between the parts they glue together to divide them; may ask how a very dense body of such a strain, can be broken or divided? But the difficulty is not great, for seeing that the humid parts, in whatsoever degree of shortness they be, must necessarily have still some latitude; it can not be doubted, but there may be some force assigned, greater than their resistance can be. All the question is, how to apply it to work its effect upon so close a compacted body, in which peradventure the continuity, of the humid parts that bind the others together, may be so small, as no other body whatsoever (no, not fire) can go between them, in such sort as to separate part from part. Att the worst, it can not be doubted but that the force may be so applied at the outside of that body, as to make the parts of it press, and fight one against an other, and att the length, by multiplication of the force, constrain it to yield and suffer division. And this I conceive to be the condition of gold and of some precious stones: in which the Elements are united by such little parts, as nothing but a civil war within themselves (stirred up by some subtle outward enemy, whereby they are made to tear their own bowels) could bring to pass their destruction.  
But this way of dissolving such bodies, more properly belongeth to the next way of working upon them by fire: yet the same is done when some exterior violence pressing upon those parts it toucheth, maketh them cu●t a way between their next neighbours; and so continuing the force, divide the whole body. As when the chisel, or even the hammer with beating, breaketh gold a sunder: for it is neither the chisel, nor the hammer that doth that effect immediately; but they make those parts they touch, cut the others that they are forced upon. In such sort as I remember happened to a gentleman that stood by me (in a sea fight I was in) with a coat of mail upon his body, when a bullet coming against a bony part in him, made a great wound, and shattered all the bones near where it struck: 
3 The several effects of fire, the second and chiefest instrument to dissolve all compounded bodies.  and yet the coat of mail was whole: it seemeth the little links of the mail yielding to the bullets force made their way into the flesh and to the bone.  
But now it is time to come to the other two instruments of separation of bodies; fire and water; and to examine how they dissolve compounds. Of these two; the way of working of fire, is the easiest and most apparent to be discerned. We may readily observe how it proceedeth, if we but set a piece of wood on fire; in which it maketh little holes as if with bodkins it pierced it. So that the manner of its operation, in common, being plain, we need but reflect a little upon the several particular degrees of it. Some bodies it seemeth not to touch; as clothes made of Asbestus; which are only purified by it. Others, it melteth, but consumeth not; as gold. Others it turneth into powder suddenly dissolving their body; as lead, and such metals as are calcined by pure fire. Others again, it separateth into a greater number of differing parts; as into spirits, waters, oils, salts, earth and glass: of which rank are all vegetables. And lastly, others it converteth into pure fire, as strong waters, or Aquavites (called aquae ardentes) and some pure oils: for the smoke that is made by their setting on fire, and peradventure their salt, is so little as is scarce discernible. These are in sum the divisions which fire maketh upon bodies, according to the nature of them, and to the due application of it unto them: for by the helppe and mediation of other things, it may peradventure work other effects.  

4 The reason why some bodies are not dissolved by fire.  Now to examine a little in particular, how the same fire, in differing subjects produceth such defferent effects▪ 
Lincus ut hic durescit, & haec ut cera liquescit,  
Vno eodemque igni;   
We will consider the nature of every one of the subjects apart by itself. First, for the Asbestus: it is clear, that it is of a very dry substance; so that to look upon it, when it is broken into very little pieces, they seem to be little bundles of short hairs, the liquidity within, being so little as it affordeth the parts neither length nor breadth: and therefore, fire meeteth with little there, that it can dilate. But what it can not dilate, it can not separate; nor carry away any thing of it, but what is accidentally adherent unto the outsides of it. And so it seemeth only to pass through the pores, and to cleanse the little thriddes of it: but bringeth no detriment at all to the substance of it. In this I speak only of an ordinary fire: for I doubt not but such a one it might be, 
5 The reason why fire molteth gold, but can not consume it.  as would perfectly calcine it.  
The next body we spoke of is gold. This aboundeth so much in liquidity, that it sticketh to the fire, if duly applied: but its humidity is so well united to its earthy parts, and is so perfectly incorporated with them; as it can not carry away one, without likewise carrying away both: but both, are too heavy a weight for the little agile parts of fire to remove. Thus, it is able to make gold swell; as we see in melting it: in which, the gold receiveth the fire into its bowels and retaineth it a long time with it: but at its departure, it permitteth the fire to carry nothing away upon its wings: as is apparent, by the golds no whitt decay of weight, after never so long fusion. And therefore, to have fire make any separation in gold; requireth the assistance of some other moist body, that an the one side may stick closely to the gold, when the fire driveth it into it, and on the other side may be capable of dilatation, by the action of the fire upon it. As in some sort we see in strong waters made of saltes, which are a proper subject for the fire to dilate, who, by the assistance of fire, mingling themselves closely with little parts of the gold, do pull them away from their whole substance, and do force them to bear them company in their journey upwardly, in which, multitudes of little parts of fire, do concur to press them on and hasten them: and so, the weight of gold being at length overcome by these two powerful Agents (whereof one supplieth, what the other wanteth) the whole substance of the metal, is in little atoms diffused through the whole body of the water. But this is not truly a dissolution or a separation of the substantial parts of gold, one from an other: it is only a corrosion, which bringeth it into a subtle powder, (when the water and saltes are separated from it) much like what filing (though far smaller) or grinding of leaf gold upon a porphyre stone, may reduce it into: for neither the parts of the water, nor of the fire that make themselves a way into the body of the gold; are small and subtle enough to get between the parts that compose the essence of it: and therefore, all they can attain unto, is to divide it only in his quantity or bulk; not in the composition of its nature.  
Yet I intent not to deny, but that this is possible to be arrived unto, either by pure fire duly applied; or by some other assistance▪ as peradventure, by some kind of Mercury: which being of a nearer cognation unto metals, than any other liquor is; may happily have a more powerful ingression into gold, than any other body whatsoever; and being withal very subject to rarefaction, it may (after it is entered) so perfectly penetrate the gold, as it may separate every least part of it, and so reduce it into an absolute calx. But in this place I explicate no more than what ordinarily passeth; leaving the mysteries of this art to those who profess it.  
To go on then with what we have in hand; 
6 Why lead is easily, consumed and calcined by fire.  lead hath abundance of water overmingled with its earth, as appeareth by its easy yielding to be bend any w●y, and by its quiet standing bend in the same position that the force which bowed it leaveth it in. And therefore, the liquid parts of lead, are easily separated from its dry and earthy ones: and when it is melted, the very shaking of it, causeth the gross parts to descend, and many liquid ones to fly away with the fire: so that, suddenly it is thus converted into powder. But this powder is gross, in respect of other metals; unless this operation be often reiterated, or the fire more powerfully applied, than what is just enough to bring the body of the lead into powder.  
The next consideration of bodies that fire worketh upon; 
7 Why and how some bodies are divided by fire into spirits, waters, oils, saltes, and earth. And what those parts are.  is of such as it divideth into spirits, saltes, oils, waters, or phlegmes, and earth. Now these are not pure and simple parts of the dissolved body, but new compounded bodies, made of the first by the operation of heat. As smoke is not pure water, but water and fire together: and therefore becometh not water, but by cooling, that is, by the fire flying away from it. So likewise those spirits, salts, oils, and the rest; are but degrees of things, which fire maketh of divers parts of the dissolved body, by separating them one from an other, and incorporating itself with them. And so, they are all of them compounded of the four Elements; and are further resoluable into them.  
Yet I intent not to say that there are not originally in the body before its dissolution, some loose parts which have the properties of these bodies that are made by the fire in the dissolving of it: for seeing that nature worketh by the like instruments as art useth; she must needs, in her excesses and defects, produce like bodies to what art doth in dissolution; which operation of art is but a kind of excess in the progress of nature: but my meaning is, that in such dissolution, there are more of these parts made by the working of fire, then were in the body before.  
Now because this is the natural and most ordinary dissolution of things; let us see in particular how it is done: suppose then that fire were in a convenient manner applied, to a body that hath all sorts of parts in it; and our own discourse will tell us, that the first effect it worketh will be, that as the subtle parts of fire do divide, and pass through that body, they will adhere to the most subtle parts in it; which being most agile, and least bound, and incorporated to the bowels of the body, and lying (as it were) loosely scattered in it, the fire will carry them away with it. Th●se will be the first that are separated from the main body; which being retained in a fit receiver, will by the coldness of the circumdant air grow outwardly cool themselves, and become first a dew upon the sides of the glass, and then still as they grow cooler, condense more and more; till at the length they fall down congealed into a palpable liquor; which is composed (as you see) of the hottest parts of the body, mingled with the fire that carried them out: and therefore this liquor, is very inflammable, and easily turned into actual fire; as you see all spirits and Aquae ardentes of vegetables are.  
The hot and loose parts being extracted; and the fire continuing and increasing; those that will follow next are such, as though they be not of themselves loose; yet are easiest to be made so; and are therefore most separable. These must be humid; and those little dry parts which are incorporated with the overflowing humid ones in them (for no parts that we can arrive unto, are of one pure, simple nature; but all are mixed and composed of the 4 Elements in some proportion) must be held together with such gross glue, as the fire may easily penetrate and separate them. And then the humid parts divided into little atoms do stick to the lesser ones of the fire: which by their multitude of number and velocity of motion, supplying what they want of them in bulk; do carry them away with them. And thus these phlegmatic parts fly up with the fire and are afterwards congealed into an insipid water: which if it have any savour, is, because the first ardent spirits are not totally separated from it; but some few of them remain in it, and give some little life to the whole body of that otherwise flat liquor.  
Now those parts which the fire separateth next from the remaining body, after the fiery and watery ones are carried away, must be such as it can work upon; and therefore must abound in humidity. But since they stir not till the watery ones are gone, it is evident, that they are composed of many dry parts strongly incorporated, and very subtilely mixed with the moist ones; and that both of them are exceeding small, and are so closely and finely knit together, that the fire hath much ado to get between them and cut the thriddes that tie them together: and therefore, they require a very great force of fire to carry them up. Now the composition of these, showeth them to be aerial: and (together with the fire that is mingled with them) they congeal into that consistence which we call oil.  
Lastly, it can not be otherwise but that the fire, in all this while of continual application to the body it thus anatomiseth, hath hardened and as it were roasted some parts into such greatness and dryness as they will not fly, nor can be carried up with any moderate heat. But, great quantity of fire being mingled with the subtler parts of his baked earth maketh them very pungent, and acrimonious in taste▪ so, that they are of the nature of ordinary salt, and are so called; and by the help of water may easily be separated, from the more gross parts, which then remain a dead and useless earth.  
By this discourse it is apparent, that fire hath been the instrument which hath wrought all these parts of an entire body into the forms they are in; for whiles, it carried away the fiery parts it swollen the watery ones: and whiles it lifted up them it digested the aerial parts, and whiles it drove up the oils, it baked the earth and salt. Again, all these retaining for the most part, the proper nature of the substance from whence they are extracted; it is evident, that the substance is not dissolved; (for so, the nature of the whole would be dissolved and quite destroyed, and extinguished in every part) but that only some parts containing the whole substance, or rather the nature of the whole substance in them, are separated from other parts that have likewise the same nature in them.  
The third instrument, 
8 How water the third instrument to dissolve bodies, dissolveth calx into salt; and so into Terra damnata.  for the separation and dissolution of bodies, is water. Whose proper matter to work upon, is salt. And it serveth to supply what the fire could not perform, which is the separation of the salt from the earth in calcined bodies. All the other parts fire was able to sever. But in these, he hath so baked the little humidity he hath left in them with their much earth▪ as he can not divide them any further. And so, though he incorporateth himself with them, yet he can carry nothing away with him. If then pure water be put upon that chalk, the subtlest dry parts of it, do easily join to the supervenient moisture; and sticking close to it do draw it down to them; but because they are the lighter, it happeneth to them, as when a man in a boat pulleth the land to him: that, cometh not to him; but he removeth himself and his boat to it: so, these ascend in the water as they dissolve. And the water, more and more penetrating them, and by addition of its parts, making the humidity which glueth their earthy parts together greater and greater; doth make a wider and wider separation between those little earthy parts. And so imbueth the whole body of the water with them; into which▪ they are dispersed in little atoms. Those that are of biggest bulk, remain lowest in the water. And in the same measure as their quantities dissolve into less and less they ascend higher and higher in the water: till at the length, the water is fully replenished with them, and they are diffused through the whole body of it: whiles the more gross and heavy earthy parts (having nothing in them to make a present combination between them and the water) do fall down to the bottom, and settle under the water in dust.  
In which because earth alone doth predominate in a very great excess, we can expect no other virtue to be in it, but that which is proper to mere earth: to wit, dryness and weight. Which ordinary Alchemissts look not after: and therefore call it Terra damnata: but others, find a fixing quality in it, by which they perform very admirable operations. Now if you pour the impregnated water from the Terra damnata, and then evaporate it; you will find a pure white substance remaining. Which by its bulk, showeth itself to be very earthy; and by its pricking, and corrosive taste, will inform you much fire is in it, and by its easy dissolution in a moist place, that water had a great share in the production of it. And thus the saltes of bodies are made and extracted.  

9 How water mingled with salt, becometh a most powerful Agent to dissolve other bodies.  Now as water doth dissolve salt, so by the incorporation and virtue of that corrosive substance it doth more than salt itself can do: for having gotten acrimony, and more weight by the mixture and dissolution of salt in it, it maketh itself a way into solid bodies, even into metals; as we see in brass and iron; which are easily rusted by salt dissolving upon them. And according as the saltes are stronger, so this corrosive virtue increaseth in them, even so much, as neither silver nor gold, are free from their eating quality. But they, as well as the rest, are divided into most small parts, and are made to swim in water, in such sort as we have explicated above, and whereof every ordinary Alchemist teacheth the practice.  
But this is not all; salts do help as well to melt hard bodies and metals, as to corrode them: for some fusible salts flowing upon them by the heat of the fire, and others dissolved by the stream of the mettle that incorporateth with them; as soon as they are in flux, they mingle with the natural juice of the mettle, and penetrate them deeper, then without them the fire could do, and swell them and make them fit to run. 
10 How putrefaction is caused.   
These are the principal ways of the two last instruments in dissolving of bodies; taking each of them by itself. But there remaineth one more of very great importance, as well in the works of nature as of art; in which, both the former are joined and do concure: and that is putrefraction. Whose way of working is by gentle heat and moisture to wet and pierce the body it worketh upon▪ whereby, it is made to swell: and the hot parts of it, being loosened▪ they are at length drunk up and drowned in the moist ones (from whence, by fire they are easily separated as we have already declared▪) and those moist parts, afterwards leaving it, the substance remaineth dry, and falleth in pieces, for want of the glue that held it together.   

THE SIXTEENTH CHAPTER. An explication of certain Maxims touching the operations, and qualities of bodies: and whether the Elements be found pure in any part of the world.  
Out of what we have determined, 
1 What is the sphere of activity in corporeal Agents.  concerning the natural actions of bodies, in their making and destroying one an other; it is easy to understand the right meaning of some terms, and the true reason of some maxims much used in the schools. As first; when Philosophers attribute unto all sorts of corporeal Agents, a Sphere of Activity. The sense of that manner of expression, in fire appeareth plainly, by what we have already declared of the nature and manner of operation of that Element.  
And in like manner, if we consider how the force of cold consisteth in a compression of the body that is made cold, we may preceiue that if in the cooled body there be any subtle parts which can break forth from the rest, such compression will make them do so. Especially if the compression be of little parts of the compressed body within themselves, as well as of the outward bulk of the whole body round about: for at first the compression of such causeth in the body, where they are, little holes or pores in the places they are compressed and driven from; which pores, they filled up when they were dilated at their own natural liberty. But being thus forcibly shrunk up into less room, afterwards, they squeeze again out of their crowd all such very loose and subtle parts (residing till then with them) as can find their way out from among them. And these subtle parts, that thus are delivered from the colds compression, get first into the pores that we have showed were made by this compression. But they can not long stay there; for the atoms of advenient cold that obsesse the compressed body, do likewise with all their force, throng into those pores, and soon drive out the subtle guests they find there, because they are more in number, bigger in bulk, and more violent in their course then they. Who therefore must yield unto them the little channels, and capacities they formerly took up. Out of which they are thrust with such an impetuosity, that they spin from them with a vehemence, as quicksilver doth through leather, when to purify it, or to bring an Amalgame to a due consistence, it is strained through the sides of it.  
Now these showers or streams of atoms issuing from the compressed body, are on all sides round about it at exceeding little distances; because the pores, out of which they are driven, are so likewise. And consequently there they remain round about besieging it, as though they would return to their original homes, as soon as the usurping strangers that were too powerful for them, will give them leave. And according to the multitude of them, and to the force with which they are driven out; the compass they take up round about the compressed body, is greater or lesser. Which besieging atoms are not so soon carried away by any exterior and accidental causes, but they are supplied by new emanations succeeding them out of the said compressed body.  
Now this which we have declared by the example of cold compressing a particular body, happeneth in all bodies wheresoever they be in the world▪ for this being the unavoidable effect of heat and of cold, wheresoever they reside; (which are the active qualities, by whose means not only fire and water and the other two Elements; but all other mixed bodies composed of the Elements, have their activity) and they being in all bodies whatsoever (as we have proved above) it followeth evidently, that there is not a body in the world, but hath about itself an orb of emanations of the same nature which that body is of. Within the compass of which orb, when any other body cometh that receiveth an immutation by the little atoms whereof that orb is composed, the advenient body seemeth to be affected and as it were replenished with the qualities of the body from whence they issue. Which is then said to work upon the body that imbibeth the emanations that flow from it. And because this orb (regularly speaking) is in the form of a sphere, the passive body is said to be within the sphere of the others activity.  
Secondly; when Philosophers pronounce, that No corporeal nature can operari in distans; that is, that no body can work upon an other remote from it, 
2 The reason why no body can work in distance.  without working first upon the body that lieth between them, which must continue and piece up the operation from the Agent to the patient. The reason and truth of this maxim is in our Philosophy evident; for we having showed that action among bodies is performed for the most part, by the emission of little parts out of one body into an other: as also, that such little parts can not stream from the body that is their fountain, and settle upon a remote body, without passing through the interjacent bodies; which must furnish them, as it were, with channels and pipes to convey them whither they are to go; It followeth manifestly, that the active emissaries of the working body, can never reach their distant mark, unless they be successively ferried over the medium, that lieth between them; in which, they must needs leave impressions of their having been there, and so work upon it in their passage, and leave in it their qualities and complexions; as a payment for their waftage over.  
But peradventure some may contend, 
3 An objection answered against the manner of explicating the former axioms.  that these invisible sergeants and workmen are too feeble and impotent to perform those visible great effects we daily see. As when fire at the length burneth a board that hath been a great while opposed to it, though it touch not the body of the fire; or when a loadstone draweth unto it a great weight of iron that is distant from it.  
Unto whom we shall reply, that if he will not grant these subtle emanations from the agent body, to be the immediate workers of these effects; he must allot that efficacy unto the whole corpulency of all the Agent working in bulk (for besides the whole, and the parts there is no third thing to be considered in bodies; since they are constituted by quantity;) but the whole, can not work otherwise then by local motion: which in this case it can not do, because by the supposition, it is determined to keep its distance from the passive body, and not to move towards it. Therefore, this is impossible; whereas the other can appear but difficult at the worst, and therefore must be admitted, when no better and more intelligible solution can be found.  
But withal we must note that it is not our intention to say, but that it may in some circumstances happen that some particular action or effect may be wrought in a remote part or body, which shall not be the same in the intermediate body that lieth between the Agent and the patient, and that conveyeth the Agents working atoms to the others body. As for example when tinder or Naphtha is by fire made to burn at a yard distance from it, when the interjacent air is but warmed by that fire. Or when the sun, by means of a burning glass or of some other reflection, setteth some bodies on fire, and yet only enlighteneth the glass and the air that are in the way. The reason of which is manifest to be the divers dispositions of the different subjects in regard of the Agent: and therefore it is no wonder that divers effects should be produced according to those divers dispositions.  
A third position among Philosophers is, 
4 Of reaction and first in pure local motion, that each Agent must suffer in acting and acts in suffering.  that all bodies which work upon others, do likewise at the same time, wherein they work; suffer from those they work upon: and chose that all bodies which suffer from others, do at the same time work back again upon them. For the better understanding whereof, let us consider that all action among bodies is either purely local motion, or else local motion with certain particularities which give it a particular name. As when we express the local motion of little atoms of fire, or of earth, or water upon and into other bodies by the words of heating or cooling; and so of the like. Now if the action be pure local motion, and consequently the effect produced by that action▪ be merely change of place; we must call to mind how two dense bodies moving one against the other, do each of them bear before them some little quantity of a rarer body immediately joined unto them: and consequently, these more rare bodies must be the first to feel the power of the dense bodies and to receive impressions from their motions; each of them, by the opposite rare body, which like an huissier goeth before to make way for his following master that obligeth him to this service.  
Now when these rarey ushers have struggled a while like the first lightly armed ranks of two armies in the interjacent field between their main battalies, that follow them close at the heels; they must at the length yield, when they are overborne by a greater weight than they can sustain; and then they recoil back, as it were to save themselves by getting in among the files of the dense bodies that drove them on; which not opening to admit them, and yet they still flying violently from the mastering force that pursueth them; they press so hard upon what at the first pressed them on, as notwithstanding their density and strength they force them to retire back: for unless they do so, they are not of the number of those that work upon one an other.  
And this retiring, is either on both sides, or but of one side. If both; than it is evident how each of them is an Agent, and each of them a sufferer; each of them overcoming his opposite in such sort, as himself likewise receiveth blows and loss. But if only one of the dense bodies be so shocked as to recoil back, then that only suffereth in its body, and the other suffereth only in its virtue; that is, in the air or other rare body it sendeth before it; which it driveth with such a violence, that it mastereth and quelleth the opposition of the other body, before it can reach to shake the dense body, before which it runneth. Yet that rare body must be pressed and broken into, in some measure, by the encounter of the other (which though never so weak yet maketh some resistance) but much more when it cometh to grapple with the dense body itself: and so between them, it is wounded and enfeebled, like those soldiers that first enter a breach in a own; from whence when they have driven the enemy, they pursue him to the citadel, and force him from thence too: and so how maimed soever they prove, they make a free and easy way without resistance for the whole body of their army to follow them, and take quiett possession of that which did cost them so much to win.  
And thus we see how it may happen that one of these moving bodies doth not suffer so much as to be stayed in its journey; much less, to be driven back. And yet the other body at the same time work in some measure upon it, by working upon what is next to it; which recoiling against it must needs make some impression upon it, since there can be no opposition but must have some effect. Now this impression or effect, though it be not perceptible by causing a contrary motion, yet it must needs enfeeble the virtue of the conquering Agent, and deaden the celerity of its motion. And thus it is evident, that in all pure local motions of corporeal Agents, every one of them must in some proportion suffer in acting, and in suffering must act.  
And what we have said of this kind of action, 
5 The former doctrine applied to other local motions designed by particular names. And that Suisseths' argument is of no force against this way of doctrine.  may easily be applied to the other where the effect of local motion is designed by a particular name, as it is in the examples we gave of heating and cooling. And in that, the proceeding will appear to be the very same as in this; for if fire doth heat water, the water reacteth again, either vpon the fire and cooleth it, if it be immediate unto it; or else upon the interjacent air, if it be at a distance from the fire. And so the air is, in some measure cooled, by the cold atoms that issue from the water, whose compass or sphere of activity being lesser than the fires, they can not cool so far off, as the others can heat: but where they do arrive, they give their proportion of cold, in the very midst of the others army of fiery atoms, notwithstanding their multitude and violence.  
According to which doctrine, our countryman Suisseth his argument, that in the schools is held insoluble, hath not so much as any semblance of the least difficulty: for it is evident that such atoms of fire and of water as we determine heat and cold to be, may pass and crowd by one an other into the subjects they are sent unto by divers little streams without hindering one an other (as we have declared of air and light) and each of them be received in their own nature and temper by the same subject; though sense can judge only according to which of them is predominant, and according to the proportion of its superiority.  
Upon which occasion we can not choose but note, how the doctrine of qualities is not only unable to give account of the ordinary and plain effects of nature; but also useth to end in clear impossibilities and contradictions if it be driven far: as this argument of Suisseth showeth, and many others of the like nature.  
A fourth position among Philosophers is, 
6 Why some notions do admit of intention and Remission; and others do not.  that some notions do admit the denominations of Intention and Remission, but that others do not. The reason of which we shall clearly see, if we but consider how these terms of intention and remission, do but express more or less, of the thing that is said to be intended or remitted: for the nature of more and less, doth imply a latitude and divisibility; and therefore can not agree with the nature of such things as consist in an indivisible being. As for example to be a whole, or to be an equal, can not be sometimes more, sometimes less; for they consist in such a rigorous indivisible being, that if the least part imaginable be wanting it is no longer a whole, and if there be the least excess between two things, they are no longer equal, but are in some other proportion then of equality in regard of one an other.  
And hence it is that Aristotle teacheth us that substance and the species of Quantity, do not admit of intention and remission; but that Quality doth. For first in substance, we know that the signification of this word is, that which maketh a thing be what it is, as is evident by our giving it for an answer to the question what a thing is. And therefore, if there were any divisibility in substance, it would be in what the thing is; and consequently, every division following that divisibility, would make the thing an other what, that is an other thing. And so the substance that is pretended to be changed by intention or remission, would not be divided, as is supposed, but would cease to be, and an other substance would succeed in the room of it. Whereby you see that every mutation in substance, maketh a new thing: and that more and less in Quiddity can not be pronounced of the same thing.  
Likewise in Quantity, it is clear that its Specieses do consist in an indivisible: for as in numbers, ten lions (for example) or ten Elephants are no more in regard of multitude than ten fleas or ten moats in the sun; and if you add or take any thing from ten, it is no more ten, but some other number: so likewise in continued extension, a span, an elle, an ounce, or any other measure whatsoever, ceaseth to be a span and the rest, if you add to it or diminish from it the least quantity imaginable. And peradventure, the same is also of figures, as of a sphere, a cube, a circle, a square, etc. though they be in the rank of Qualities.  
But if we consider such qualities as heat, cold, moisture, dryness, softness, hardness, weight, lightness, and the like▪ we shall find that they may be in any body sometimes more, sometimes less, (according as the excess of any Element or mixture is greater in it, at one time then at an other) and yet the body in which these qualities are intended or remitted, remain still with the same denomination. As when dirt continueth still soft, though sometimes it be less soft, other whiles softer; and wax remaineth figurable, whether it be melted or congealed; and wood is still hot though it lose or gain some degree of heat.  
But such intention in any subject whatsoever hath its determinate limits that it can not pass; for when more of that quality that we say is intended (that is, more of the atoms of the active body) is brought into the body that suffereth the intention, than its complexion can brook; it resigneth its nature to their violence and becometh a new thing; such an one as they are pleased to make it. As when wood, with extremity of heating (that is, with bringing into it so many atoms of fire, that the fire is stronger in it then its own nature) is converted into fire, smoke, water, and ashes; and nothing remaineth of the nature of wood.  

7 That in every part of our habitable world; all the four Elements, are found pure in small atoms; but not in any great bulk.  But before we end this chapter, we may remember how in the close of the fourth we remitted a question concerning the existence of the Elements; (that is; whether in any places of the world there were any pure Elements, either in bulk or in little parts;) as being not ready to resolve it, till we had declared the manner of working of bodies one upon an other. Here then will be a fit place to determine that, out of what we have discoursed concerning the actions, whereby bodies are made and corrupted: for considering the universal action of fire that runneth through all the bodies we have commerce withal, by reason of the sun's influence into them and operation upon them with his light and beams which reacheth far and near; and looking upon the effects which we have showed do follow thence: it is manifest, there can not be any great quantity of any body whatsoever, in which fire is not intrinsically mixed. And on the other side, we see that where fire is once mixed it is very hard to separate it totally from thence. Again we see it is impossible that pure fire should be conserved, without being adjoined to some other body; both because of its violent nativity, still streaming forth with a great impetuosity; as also, because it is so easily overcome by any obsident body when it is dilated. And therefore we may safely conclude that no simple Element can consist in any great quantity in this course of nature which we live in and take a survey of. Neither doth it appear to what purpose nature should have placed any such storehouses of simples, seeing she can make all needful complexions by the dissolutions of mixed bodies into other mixed bodies savouring of the nature of the Elements, without needing their purity to begin upon.  
But on the other side, it is as evident that the Elements must remain pure in every compounded body in such extreme small parts as we use to call atoms: for if they did not, the variety of bodies would be nothing else, but so many degrees of rarity and density, or so many pure homogeneal Elements, and not bodies composed of heterogeneal parts: and consequently, would not be able to show that variety of parts which we see in bodies, nor could produce the complicated effects which proceed from them. And accordingly we are sure that the least parts which our senses can arrive to discover have many varieties in them: even so much that a whole living creature (whose organical parts must needs be of exceeding different natures) may be so little, as unto our eyes to seem indivisible; we not distinguishing any difference of parts in it without the help of a multiplying glass: as in the least kind of mites, and in worms picked out of children's hands we daily experience. So as it is evident that no sensible part can be unmingled. But then again, when we call to mind how we have showed that the qualities which we find in bodies do result out of the composition, and mixtion of the Elements, we must needs conclude that they must of necessity remain in their own essences in the mixed body. And so out of the whole discourse, determine that they are not there in any visible quantity, but in those least atoms, that are too subtle for our senses to discern. Which position we do not understand so Metaphysically as to say that their substantial forms remain actually in the mixed body; but only, that their accidental qualities are found in the compound; remitting that other question unto Metaphysicians (those spiritual Anatomists) to decide.   

THE SEVENTEENTH CHAPTER. Of Rarefaction and Condensation the two first motions of particular bodies.  

1 The Author's intent in this and the following chapters.  Our intention in this discourse, concerning the natures and motions of bodies, aiming no further than at the discovery of what is or may be done by corporeal Agents; thereby to determine what is the work of immaterial and spiritual substances; it can not be expected at our hands that we should deliver here an entire and complete body of natural Philosophy. But only that we should take so much of it in our way, as is needful to carry us with truth and evidence to our journey's end. It belongeth not then to us to meddle with those sublime contemplations which search into the nature of the vast Universe, and that determine the unity and limitation of it; and that show by what strings, and upon what pins, and wheels, and hinges, the whole world moveth: and that from thence do ascend unto an awful acknowledgement and humble admiration of the primary cause; from whence, and of which, both the being of it, and the beginning of the first motion, and the continuance of all others doth proceed and depend.  
Nor in deed would it be to the purpose for anyman to sail in this Ocean, and to begin a new voyage of navigation upon it: unless he were assured, he had ballast enough in his ship to make her sink deep into the water and to carry her steadily through those unruly waves; and that he were furnished with skill and provision sufficient to go through, without either losing his course by steering after a wrong compass, or being forced back again with short and obscure relations of discoveries: since others that went out before him, are returned with a large account to such as are able to understand and sum it up. Which surely our learned countryman, 
Mr. Thomas White.  and my best and most honoured friend, and to whom of all men living I am most obliged (for to him I owe that little which I know; and what I have, and shall set down in all this discourse, is but a few sparks kindled by me at his great fire) hath both profoundly, and acutely, and in every regard judiciously performed in his Dialogues of the world.  
Our task then (in a lower strain; and more proportionate to so weak shoulders) is to look no further then among those bodies we converse withal. Of which, having declared by what course and engines nature governeth their common motions, that are found even in the Elements, and from thence are derived to all bodies composed of them; we intent now to consider such motions as accompany divers particular bodies, and are much admired by whosoever understandeth not the causes of them.  
To begin from the easiest and most connexed with the actions of the Elements, 
2 That bodies may be rarifyed, both by outward and inward heat; and how this is performed.  the handsel of our labour will light upon the motions of Rarefaction and Condensation, as they are the passions of mixed bodies. And first for Rarefaction; we may remember how it proceedeth originally from fire, and dependeth of heat; as is declared in the former chapter: and wheresoever we find Rarefaction, we may be confident the body which suffereth it, is not without fire working upon it. From hence we may gather, that when the air imprisoned in a balloon or bladder, swelleth against what containeth it; and stretcheth its case, and seeketh to break out; this effect must proceed from fire or heat (though we see not the fire) working either within the very bowels of the air; or without, by pressing upon what containeth it, and so making itself a way unto it.  
And that this latter way is able to work this effect; may be convinced by the contrary effect from a contrary cause: for take a bladder stretched out unto its greatest extent by air shut up within it; and hang it in a cold place; and you will see it presently contract itself into a less room; and the bladder will grow wrinckeled and become too big for the air within it. But for immediate proof of this position, we see that the addition of a very small degree of heat, rarifyeth the air in a weather glass, (the air receiving the impression of heat, sooner than water) and so maketh it extend itself into a greater place; and consequently, it presseth upon the water; and forceth it down into a less room then formerly it possessed. And likewise we see quickesyluer and other liquors, if they be shut up in glasses close stopped and set in sufficient heat (and a little is sufficient for this effect) they will swell and fill their glasses; and at the last break them, rather than not find a way to give themselves more room; which is then grown too strait in the glass, by reason of the rarefaction of the liquors by the fire working upon them.  
Now again; that this effect may be wrought by the inward heat, that is enclosed in the bowels of the substance thus shut up; both reason, and experience do assure us: for, they teach us that if a body which is not extremely compacted, but that by its looseness is easily divisible into little parts (such a one as wine, or other spirittfull liquors) be enclosed in a vessel; the little atoms that perpetually move up and down in every space of the whole world, making their way through every body, will set on work the little parts, in the wine for example, to play their game: so that the hot and light parts (if they be many) not enduring to be compressed and kept in by the heavy and cold ones, do seek to break out with force; and till they can free themselves from the dense ones that would imprison them they carry them along with them, and make them to swell out as well as themselves.  
Now if they be kept in by the vessel, so that they have not play enough; they drive the dense ones (like so many little hammers or wedges) against the sides of it, and att the length do break it, and so do make themselves way, to a larger room. But if they have vent; the more fiery hot spirits fly away, and leave the other grosser parts quiett and at rest. On the other side if the hot and light parts in a liquor be not many nor very active, and the vessel be so full that the parts have not free scope to remove and make way for one an other, there will not follow any great effect in this kind: as we see in bottled beer or ale, that worketh little, unless there be some space left empty, in the bottle. And again; if the vessel be very much too big for the liquor in it, the fiery parts find room, first to swell up the heavy ones; and at the length to get out from them, though the vessel be close stopped; for they have scope enough to float up and down between the surface of the liquor, and the roof of the vessel.  
And this is the reason that if a little beer or small wine be left long in a great cask, be it never so close stopped, it will in time grow dead. And then, if at the opening of the bung (after the cask hath been long unstirred) you hold a candle close to it, you shall at the instant see a flash of flame environing the ve●t. Which is no other thing, but the subtle spirits that parting from the beer or wine, have left it dead; and flying abroad as soon as they are permitted, are set on fire by the flame that they meet with in their journey, as being more combustible (because more subtle) then that spirit of wine which is kept in form of liquor: and yet that likewise (though much grosser) is set on fire by the touch of flame. And this happeneth not only to wine, and beer, or ale, but even to water. As daily experience showeth in the east Indian ships, that having been 5. or 6. years at sea, when they open some of their casks of Thames water in their return homewards (for they keep that water till the last; as being their best and most durable; and that groweth lighter and purer, by the often putrifyinge through violent motions in storms, every one of which maketh new gross and earthy parts fall down to the bottom, and other volatile ones ascend to the top;) a flame is seen about their bunges if a candle be near, as we said before of wine.  
And to proceed, with confirming this doctrine by further experience; we daily see that the little parts of heat being agitated and brought into motion in any body; they enter and pierce into other parts, and incorporate themselves with them, and set them on fire if they be capable thereof: as we see in wet hay or flax laid together in great quantity. And if they be not capable of taking fire, than they carry them with them to the outside; and when they can transport them no further, part flieth away, and other part stayeth with them: as we see in new beer or ale, and in must of wine; in which, a substance usually called the mother, is wrought up to the top.  
Which in wine, will at the last be converted into Tartar; when the spirits that are very volatile, are flown away; and do leave those parts from whence they have evaporated, more gross and earthy than the others, where the grosser and subtler parts continue still mixed. But in beer or rather in ale; this mother, which in them we call barm, will continue longer in the same consistence, and with the same qualities; for the spirits of it are not so fiery that they must presently leave the body they have incorporated themselves withal; nor are hot enough to bake it into a hard consistence. And therefore, bakers make use of it to raise their bread; which neither it will do, unless it be kept from cold; both which, are evident signs that it worketh in force of heat; and consequently, that it continueth still a hot and light substance.  
And again we see that after wine or beer hath wrought once, a violent motion will make it work anew. As is daily seen in great lightning's and in thunder, and by much rocking of them; for such motion rarifyeth, and consequently heateth them: partly by separating the little parts of the liquor, which were before as glued together, and therefore lay quietly; but now, by their pulling asunder, and by the liquors growing thereby more loose than it was, they have freedom to play up and down: and partly by beating one part against an other; which breaketh and divideth them into lesser atoms, and so bringeth some of them into the state of fire; which you may remember, is nothing else but a body brought into such a degree of littleness and rarity of its parts.  
And this is the reason why such hard and dry bodies as have an unctuous substance in them, are by motion either easily set on fire, or at the least, fire is easily gotten out of them. As happeneth in flintes, and in divers other stones, which yield fire when they are strucken; and if presently after you smell unto them, you shall perceive an odour of brimstone and of burning which is a certain sign that the motion did convert into fire the natural brimstone that was mingled with the flint, and whose denser parts were grown cold, and so stuck to the stone. And in like manner, the ivywood and divers others, as also the Indian canes (which from thence are called firecanes) being rubbed with some other stick of the same nature; if they be first very dry, will of themselves set on fire: and the like will happen to coach wheels in summer if they be overheated with motion.  
To conclude our discourse of rarefaction, 
3 Of the great effects of Rarefaction.  we may look a little into the power and efficacity of it, which is no where to be seen so clearly as in fire. And as fire is the general cause of rarefaction, so is it of all bodies, that which is most rarifyed. And therefore it is no marvel if its effects be the greatest that are in nature, seeing it is the proper operation of the most active Element. The wonderful force of it we daily see in thunder, in guns, in granadoes, and in mines; of which, continual experience, as well as several histories wittnesseth little less than miracles. Leaving them to the remarkes of curious Persons, we will only look into the way by which so main effects do proceed from causes that appear so slender.  
It is evident that fire (as we have said before) dilateth itself spherically; as nature showeth us manifestly in bubbles of boiling water, and of mike, and generally of such substances as are of a viscous composition; for those bubbles being round, do assure us that the cause which made them, did equally dilate them from the centre unto all parts. Now then remembering the infinite multiplication which is in fire, we may conceive that when a grain of gunnepouder is turned thereinto, there are so many little bubbles of a viscous substance one backing an other with great celerity, as there are parts of fire more than there were of gunnepouder. And if we make a computation of the number and of the celerity of these bubbles; we shall find that although every one of them single do seem to be of an inconsiderable force, yet the whole number of them together, will exceed the resistance of the body moved or broken by them: especially, if we note, that when hard substances have not time allowed them to yield, they break the sooner. And then we shall not so much admire the extremities we see acted by these means.  
Thus having looked into the nature of rarefaction, and traced the progress of it from the motion of the sun and fire; 
4 The first manner of condensation, by heat.  in the next place we are to examine the nature of condensation. And we shall oftentimes find it likewise an effect of the same cause otherwise working: for there being two different ways to dry any wet thing; the one, by taking away that juice which maketh a body liquid; the other, by putting more drought to the wet body, that it may imbibe the moisture; this latter way doth as well as the former, condense a body: for by the close sticking of wet to dry, the most part of condensation is effected in compounded bodies.  
The first of these ways, doth properly and immediately proceed from heat; for heat entering into a body, incorporateth itself with the moist and viscous parts it findeth there: as purging medicines do with the humours they work upon▪ which when the stomach can no longer entertain (by reason of their unruly motions in wrestling together) they are both ejected grappling with one an other; and the place of their contention is thus, by the superuenience of a guest of a contrary nature (that will not stay long there) purged from the superaboundance of the former ones that annoyed it. Even so the fire that is greedily drunk up by the watery and viscous parts of a compounded body; and whose activity and restless nature will not endure to be long imprisoned there, quickly pierceth quite through ●he body it entereth into, and after a while streameth out at the opposite side, as fast as it entered on the side next to it, and carrieth away with it those glewy parts it is incorporated with: and by their absence, leaveth the body they part from, drier than at the first it was.  
Which course we may observe in sirupes that are boiled to a consistence, and in broths that are consumed unto a jelly: over which, whiles they are making by the fire under them, you see a great steam; which is, the watery parts that being incorporated with fire, fly away in smoke. Likewise when the sea water is condensed into salt, you see it is an effect of the sun or fire that exhaleth or boileth away all the palpable moisture. And so when wet clothes are hanged either in the sun or at the fire, we see a smoke about the clothes, and heat within them; which being all drawn out from them, they become dry.  
And this deserveth a particular note, that although they should be not quite dry, when you take them from the fire; yet by than they are cool, they will be dry: for the fire that is in them when they are removed from the main stock of fire, flying away carrieth with it the moisture that was incorporated with it: and therefore whiles they were hot, that is, whiles the fire was in them, they must also be moist; because the fire and the moisture were grown to be one body: and could not become through dry with that measure of fire, (for more would have dried them, even whiles they where hot) until they were also grown through cold. And in like manner, sirupes, hydromels, jellies, and the like, grow much thicker after they are taken off from the fire, than they were upon the fire, and much of their humidity, flieth away with the fire, in their cooling, whereby they lessen much of their quantity, even after the outward fire hath ceased from working upon them.  
Now if the moist parts, that remain after the drying, be by the heat well incorporated in the dry parts; and so do occasion the dry parts to stick close together; then that body is condensed, and will (to the proportion of it) be heavyer in a less bulk; as we see that metals are heavyer than stones.  
Although this effect be in these examples wrought by heat, 
5 The second manner of condensation by cold.  yet generally speaking it is more proper to cold: which is the second way of drying a moist body. As when in Greeneland, the extreme cold freezeth the whalefishers' beer into ice, so that the stewards divide it with axes and wedges, and deliver their portions of drink to their ships company, and their shallopes gings, in their bare hands: but in the innermost part of the butt, they find some quantity of very strong liquor, not inferior to moderate spirit of wine. Att the first, before custom had made it familiar unto them, they wondered that every time they drew at the tap, when first it came from their ships to the shore (for the heat of the hold would not let it frieze) no liquor would come, unless they new tapped it with a longer gimlett: but they thought that pains well recompensed, by finding it in the taste to grow stronger and stronger; till at the last, their longest gimlets would bring nothing out; and yet the vessel not a quarter drawn off; which obliged them then to stave the cask, that so they might make use of the substance that remained.  
The reason of this, is evident: that cold seeking to condense the beer by mingling its dry and cold parts with it, those that would endure this mixture, were imbibed and shrunk up by them. But the other rare and hot parts that were squeezed out by the dense ones which entered to congeal the beer, and were forced into the middle of the vessel (which was the furthest part for them to retire unto, from their environing enemies) did conserve themselves in their liquid form, in defiance of the assaulting cold; whiles their fellows, remaining by their departure more gross and earthy than they were before, yielded to the conqueror, they could not shift away from, and so were dried and condensed into ice: which when the mariners thawed, they found it like fair water, without any spirits in it or comforting heat to the stomach.  
This manner of condensation, which we have described in the freezing of beer, is the way most practised by nature; I mean, for immediate condensation (for condentsation is secondarily, wheresoever there is rarefaction which we have determined to be an effect of heat.) And the course of it is: that a multitude of earthy and dry bodies being driven against any liquor, they easily divide it, by means of their density, their dryness, and their littleness (all which in this case do accompany one an other; and are by us determined to be powerful dividers;) and when they are gotten into it, they partly suck into their own pores the wet and diffused parts of the liquid body; and partly they make them (when themselves are full) stick fast to their dry sides, and become as a glue to hold themselves strongly together. And thus they dry up the liquor; and by the natural pressing of gravity they contract it into a lesser room. No otherwise then when we force much wind or water into a bottle; and by pressing it more and more, make it lie closer than of its own nature it would do. Or rather, as when ashes being mingled with water; both those substances do stick so close to one an other, that they take up less room than they did each apart.  
This is the method of frosts, and of snow, and of ice, both natural and artificcall; for in natural freezing, ordinarily the north or north-east wind by its force bringeth and driveth into our liquors, such earthy bodies as it hath gathered from rocks covered with snow; which being mixed with the light vapours whereof the wind is made, do easily find way into the liquors, and then they dry them into that consistence which we call ice. Which in token of the wind it hath in it, swimmeth upon the water, and in the vessel where it is made,, riseth higher than the water did whereof it is composed: and ordinarily it breaketh from the sides of the vessel so giving way to more wind to come in, and frieze deeper and thicker.  

6 That ice is not water rarifyed but condensed.  But because Galileus Nell discorso intorno alle cose che stanno in sum l'acqua pag. 4. was of opinion that ice was water rarifyed, and not condensed; we must not pass over this verity, without maintaining it against the opposition of so powerful an adversary. His arguments are; first that ice taketh up more place, than the water did of which it was made; which is against the nature of condensation. Secondly, that quantity for quantity, ice is lighter than water; whereas things that are more dense, are proportionally more heavy. And lastly, that ice swimmeth in water, whereas we have often taught, that the more dense descendeth in the more rare.  
Now to reply to these arguments, we say first, that we would gladly know how he did to measure the quantity of the ice, with the quantity of the water of which it was made; and then when he hath showed it, and showed withal that ice holdeth more place than water; we must tell him that his experiment concludeth nothing against our doctrine, because there is an addition of other bodies mingled with the water to make ice of it as we touched above; and therefore that compound may well take up a greater place than the water alone did, and yet be denser than it; and the water also be denser, than it was.  
And that other bodies do come into the water and are mingled with it, is evident, out of the exceeding coldness of the air, or some very cold wind; one of which two never misseth to reign whensoever the water freezeth: and both of them do argue great store of little earthy dry bodies abounding in them, which sweeping over all those that lie in their way and course, must of necessity be mixed with such as give them admittance; which water doth very easily. And accordingly we see that when in the freezing of water, the ice groweth any thing deep, it either shrinketh about the borders or at the least lieth very loose; so as we can not doubt but that there is a free passage for more of such subtle bodies to get still to the water, and frieze it deeper.  
To his second argument, we ask how he knoweth that ice quantity for quantity, is lighter than water? For although, of a sponge that is full of water, it be easy to know what the sponge weigheth, and what the water, that was soaked into it, because we can part the one of them from the other, and keep each apart, to examine their weights: yet to do the like between ice and water, if ice be throughout full of air (as of necessity it must be) we believe impossible. And therefore, it may be lighter in the bulk than water, by reason of the great pores caused in it, through the shrinking up of the parts of water together (which pores must then necessarily be filled with air) and yet every part by itself (in which no air is) be heavyer than so much water.  
And by this it appeareth that his last argument, (grounded upon the swimming of ice in water) hath no more force than if he would prove that an iron or an earthen dish, were lighter, and consequently more rare, than water; because it swimmeth upon it; which is an effect of the airs being contained in the belly of it (as it is in ice) not a sign of the metals being more rare than water.  
Whereas on the contrary side, the proof is positive and clear for us; for it can not be denied, but that the mingling of the water with other bodies more dense than it, must of necessity make the compound and also the water itself become more dense than it was alone. And accordingly we see, that ice half thawed (for then, much of the air is driven out, and the water beginneth to fill the pores wherein the air resided before) sinketh to the bottom: as an iron dish with holes in it (whereby the water might get into it) would do. And besides, we see that water is more diaphanous than ice, and ice more consistent than water. Therefore I hope we shall be excused, if in this particular we be of a contrary opinion to this great personage.  

7 How wind, snow, and hail are made; and wind by rain allayed.  But to return unto the third of our discourse. The same that passeth here before us; passeth also in the sky with snow, hail, rain, and wind. Which that we may the better understand, let us consider how winds are made: for they have a main influence into all the rest. When the sun or by some particular occurrent, raiseth great multitudes of atoms, from some one place; and they either by the attraction of the sun, by some other occasion, do take their course a certain way; this motion of those atoms we call a wind: which according to the continuance of the matter from whence these atoms rise, endureth a longer or a shorter time, and goeth a farther or a shorter way; like a river, or rather, like those eruptions of waters, which in the Northern parts of England they call Gypsies: the which do break out at uncertain times, and upon uncertain causes, and flow likewise with an uncertain duration. So these winds, being composed of bodies in a determinate proportion heavyer than the air, do run their course from their height to the ground, where they are supported (as water is by the floor of its channel) whiles they perform their career; that is, until they be wasted, either by the drawing of the sun, or by their sticking and incorporating into grosser bodies.  
Some of these winds according to the complexion of the body out of which they are extracted, are dry; as those which come from barren mountains covered with snow: others are moist; as those that come out of marishy, or watery places: others, have other qualities; as of heat or cold, of wholesomeness, or unwholesomenesse, and the like; partly from the source, and partly from the bodies they are mingled with in their way.  
Such then being the nature and origine of winds; if a cold one do meet in the air with that moist body whereof otherwise rain would have been made, it changeth that moist body into snow or into hail; if a dry wind meet with a wet body it maketh it more dry, and so hindereth the rain that was likely to be: but if the wet body overcome the dry wind, it bringeth the wind down along with it; as we see when a shower of rain allayeth a great wind.  
And that all this is so, experience will in some particulars instruct us as well as reason, from whence the rest may be evidently inferred. For we see that those who in imitation of nature would convert water into ice, do take snow or ice, and mingle it with some active dry body, that may force the cold parts of the snow from it; and then they set the water (in some fit vessel) in the way that those little bodies are to take, which by that means entering into it, do strait incorporate themselves therewith, and of a sudden do convert it into ice. Which process you may easily try, by mingling salt armoniac with the snow; but much more powerfully, by setting the snow over the fire, whiles the glass of water to be congealed standeth in it after the manner of an egg in salt. And thus, fire itself, though it be the enemy and destroyer of all cold, is made the instrument of freezing. And the same reason holdeth, in the cooling of wine with snow or ice, when after it hath been a competent time in the snow, they whose charge it is, do use to give the vessel that containeth the wine, three or four turns in the snow; so to mingle through the whole body of the wine, the cold received first but in the outward parts of it, and by pressing, to make that without, have a more forcible ingression.  
But the whole doctrine of Meteores, is so amply, so ingeniously, and so exactly performed by that never enough praised Gentleman Monsieur Des Cartes in his Meteorological discourses; as I should wrong myself, and my Reader, if I dwelled any longer upon this subject. And whose Physical discourses, had they been diuulged before I had entered upon this work, I am persuaded would have excused the greatest part of my pains in delivering the nature of bodies.  
It were a fault to pass from treating of condensation, 
8 How parts of the same or divers bodies, are joined more strongly together by condensation.  without noting so ordinary an effect of it as is the joining together of parts of the same body, or of divers bodies. In which we see for the most part that the solid bodies which are to be joined together, are first either heated or moistened, that is, they are rarifyed: and then they are left to cold air, or to other cold bodies, to thicken and condense (as above; we mentioned of syrupes and jellies;) and so they are brought to stick firmly together. In the like manner we see that when two metals are heated till they be almost brought to running, and then are pressed together by the hammer, they become one continued body. The like we see in glass, the like in wax, and in divers other things. On the contrary side; when a broken stone is to be pieced together, the pieces of it must be wetted, and the cement must be likewise moistened, and then joining them aptly, and drying them, they stick fast together. Glue is moistened, that it may by drying afterwards, hold pieces of wood together. And the spectaclemakers have a composition which must be both heated and moistened, to join unto handles of wood the glasses which they are to grind. And broken glasses are cemented with cheese and chalk or with garlic.  
All these effects our sense evidently showeth us, arise out of condensation; but to our reason it belongeth to examine particularly by what steps they are performed Frst then we know that heat doth subtilise the little bodies which are in the pores of the heated body; and partly also, it openeth the pores of the body itself, if it be of a nature that permitteth it; as it seemeth those bodies are, which by heat are mollifyed or are liquefactible. Again, we know that moisture is more subtle to enter into small creeks, then dry bodies are; especially when it is pressed; for than it will be divided into very little parts, and will fill up every little chink; and neverthesse's if it be of a gross and viscous nature, all the parts of it will stick together. Out of these two properties we have, that since every body hath a kind of orb of its own exhalations, or vapours round about itself (as is before declared,) the vapours which are about one of the bodies, will more strongly and solidely (that is in more abundant and greater parts) enter into the pores of the other body against which it is pressed, when they are opened and dilated: and thus they becoming common to both bodies, by flowing from the one, and streaming into the other, and sticking to them both will make them stick to one an other. And then as they grow cold and dry, these little parts shrink on both sides; and by their shrinking draw the bodies together; and withal, do leave greater pores by their being compressed together, then were there, when by heat and moisture they were dilated; into which pores the circumstant cold parts do enter, and thereby do as it were wedge in the others; and consequently, do make them hold firmly together the bodies, which they join.  
But if art or nature should apply to this juncture any liquor or vapour, which had the nature and power to insinuate itself more efficaciously to one of these bodies, than the glue which was between them did; of necessity, in this case, these bodies must fall in pieces. And so it happeneth in the separation of metals by corrosive waters; as also in the precipitation of metals or of saltes when they are dissolved in such corrosive waters, by means of other metals or saltes of a different nature: in both which cases the entrance of a latter body that penetrateth more strongly, and uniteth itself to one of the joined bodies but not to the other, teareth them asunder, and that which the piercing body rejecteth, falleth into little pieces; and if formerly it were joined with the liquor, it is then precipitated down from it in a dust.  

9 Vacuites can not be the reason, why water impregnated to the full with one kind of salt, will notwithstanding receive more of an other.  Out of which discourse we may resolve the question of that learned and ingenious man Petrus Gassendus; who, by experience found, that water impregnated to fullness with ordinary salt, would yet receive a quantity of other salt; and when it would imbibe no more of that, would nevertheless take into it a proportion of a third; and so of several kinds of saltes one after an other: which effect, he attributed to vacuites or porous spaces of divers figures, that he conceived to be in the water; whereof, some were fit for the figure of one salt, and some, for the figure of an other. Very ingeniously; yet if I miss not my mark, most assuredly he hath miss his.  
For first, how could he attribute divers sorts of vacuites to water, without giving it divers figures? And this would be against his own discourse, by which, every body should have one determinate natural figure.  
Secondly; I would ask him; if he measured his water after every salting? And if he did, whether he did not find the quantity greater, then before that salt was dissolved in it? Which if he did (as without doubt he must) than he might safely conclude, that his saltes were not received in vacuities; but that the very substance of the water gave them place, and so increased by the receiving of them.  
Thirdly, seeing that in his doctrine, every substance hath a particular figure; we must allow a strange multitude of different shapes of vacuities to be naturally in water; if we will have every different substance wherewith it may be impregnated (by making decoctions, extractions, solutions, and the like) to find a fit vacuity in the water to lodge itself in. What a difforme net with a strange variety of mashes would this be? And indeed how extremely uncapable must it be of the quantity of every various kind of vacuity that you will find must be in it; if in every solution of one particular substance, you calculate the proportion between it and the water that dissolveth it, and then multiply it according to the number of several kinds of substances that may be dissolved in water? By this proceeding, you will find the vacuities to exceed infinitely the whole body of the water; even so much that it could not afford subtle thriddes enough to hold itself together.  
Fourthly, if this doctrine were true it would never happen that one body or salt should precipitate down to the bottom of the water, by the solution of an other in it, which every Alchemist knoweth, never faileth in due circumstances: for seeing that the body which precipitateth, and the other which remaineth dissolved in the water, are of different figures, and therefore do require different vacuities, they might both of them have kept their places in the water, without thrusting one an other out of it.  
Lastly, this doctrine giveth no account why one part of salt is separated from an other by being put in the water, and why the parts are there kept so separated, which is the whole effect of that motion which we call dissolution.  
The true reason therefore of this effect, 
10 The true reason of the former effect.  is (as I conceive) that one salt maketh the water apt to receive an other; for the lighter salt being incorporated with the water, maketh the water more proper to stick unto an heavyer, and by dividing the small parts of it to bear them up, that otherwise would have sunk in it. The truth and reason of which will appear more plain, if at every joint, we observe the particular steps of every saltes solution. As soon as you put the first salt into the water, it falleth down presently to the bottom of it; and as the water doth by its humidity pierce by degrees the little joints of this salt, so the small parts of it are by little and little separated from one an other, and united to parts of water. And so infusing more and more salt, this progress will continue, until every part of water is incorporated with some part of salt: and then, the water can no longer work of itself but in conjunction to the salt with which it is united. After which, if more salt of the same kind be put into the water; that water so impregnated, will not be able to divide it; because it hath not any so subtle parts left, as are able to enter between the joints of a salt so closely compacted: but may be compared to that salt, as a thing of equal dryness with it; and therefore is unapt to moisten and to pierce it.  
But if you put unto this compound of salt and water, an other kind of salt that is of a stronger and a drier nature than the former, and whose parts are more grossly united; then the first salt dissolved in the water, will be able to get in betwixt the joints of the grosser salt, and will divide it into little parts; and will incorporate his already composed parts of salt and water, into a decompound of two saltes and water; until all his parts be anew impregnated with the second grosser salt; as before, the pure water was with the first subtler salt. And so it will proceed on, if proportionate bodies be joined, until the dissolving composition do grow into a thick body.  
Unto which discourse we may add, that when the water is so fully impregnated with the first salt, as it will receive no more, remaining in the temper it is in; yet if it be heated, it will then afresh dissolve more of the same kind. Which showeth, that the reason of its giving over to dissolve, is for want of having the water divided into parts little enough to stick unto more salt: which, as in this case the fire doth; so peradventure in the other, the acrimoniousnesse of the salt doth it.  

11 The reason why bodies of the same nature do join more easily together than others.  And this is sufficient to give curious wits occasion by making further experiments, to search out the truth of this matter. Only we may note what happeneth in most of the experiencies we have mentioned; to wit that things of the same nature do join better and more easily than others that are more estranged from one an other. Which is very agreeable to reason; seeing that if nature do intend to have things consist long together, she must fit them for such consistence.  
Which seemeth to proceed out of their agreement in four qualities: first, in weight for bodies of divers degrees in weight, if they be at liberty, do seek divers places; and consequently, substances of like weight, must of necessity find one an other out, and crowd together; as we have showed, it is the natute of heat to make them do: now it is apparent that things of one nature, must in equal parts have the same or a near proportion of weight, seeing that in their composition, they must have the same proportion of Elements.  
The second reason of the consistence of bodies together, that are of the same nature is, the agreement of their liquid parts, in the same degree of rarity and density: for as it is the nature of quantity in common to make all parts be one quantity; so it is the nature of the degrees of quantity, when two parts do meet that are of the same degree, to make them one in that degree of quantity; which is, to make them stick together in that degree of sticking, which the degree of density that is common to them both, maketh of its own nature. Whereas, parts of different densities, can not have this reason of sticking: though, peradventure they may upon some other ground, have some more efficacious one. And in this manner, the like humid parts of two bodies, becoming one, the holes or receptacles in which those humid parts are contained must also needs be united.  
The third reason is the agreeable proportion, which their several figures have in respect of one an other: for if any humidity be extracted out of a mixed body, especially, by the virtue of fire; it must have left pores of such figures, as the humidity that is drawn out of them▪ is apt to be cut into (for every humid body not being absolutely humid, but having certain dry parts mixed with it, is more apt for one kind of figure and greatness, then for an other;) and by consequence, whensoever that humidity shall meet again with the body it was severed from; it will easily run through and into it all, and will fill exactly the cavities and pores it possessed before.  
The last quality, in which bodies that are to consist long together, do agree, is the bigness of the humid and dry parts of the same body: for if the humid parts be too big for the dry ones, it is clear that the dry ones must needs hang loosely together by them; because their glue is in too great a quantity. But if the humid parts be too little for the dry ones, then of necessity some portion of every little dry part must be unfurnished of glue, by means whereof to stick unto his fellow: and so the sticking parts not being conveniently proportioned to one an other, their adhesion can not be so solid as if each of them were exactly fitted to his fellow.   

THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER. Of an other motion belonging to particular bodies, called Attraction; and of certain operations, termed Magical.  
Having thus ended the two motions of rarefaction and of condensation; 
1 What Attraction is, and from whence it proceedeth.  the next that offer themselves, are the local motions which some bodies have unto others. These are sometimes performed by a plain force in the body towards which the motion is: and other while, by a hidden cause, which is not so easily discerned. The first, is chiefly that which is ordinarily said to be done by the force of nature to hinder Vacuum, and is much practised by nature; as in drawing our breath, in sucking, and in many other natural operations, which are imitated by art in making of pumps; syphons, and such other instruments; and in that admirable experiment of taking up a heavy marble stone merely by an other lying flat and smoothly upon it, without any other connexion of the two stones together; as also by that sport of boys, when they spread a thin moistened leather upon a smooth broad stone, and press it all over close to it, and then by pulling of a string fastened at the middle of the leather, they draw up likewise the heavy stone. In all which, the first cause of the motion, proceedeth from that body towards which the motion is made. And therefore, is properly called Attraction.  
For the better understanding and declaring of which, let us suppose two marble stones, very broad and exceeding smoothly polished, to be laid one flat upon the other: and let there be a ring fastened at the back part of the uppermost stone; and exactly in the middle of it. Then, by that ring, pull it up perpendicularly and steadily, and the undermost will follow sticking fast to the overmost; and though they were not very perfectly polished, yet the nethermost would follow for a while, if the ring be suddenly plucked up; but than it will soon fall down again. Now this plainly showeth that the cause of their sticking so strongly together, when both the stones are very well polished, is for that nothing can well enter between them to part them; and so, it is reduced to the shortness of the air that is betwixt them: which not being capable of so great an expansion, nor admitting to be divided thickewayes so much as is necessary to fill the first growing distance, between the two stones till new air findeth a course thither, (that so, the swelling of the one, may hinder vacuity, till the other come in to the rescue;) the two stones must needs stick together to certain limits; which limits will depend of the proportion that is between the weight, and the continuity of the nethermost stone.  

2 The true sense of the Maxim, that Nature abhorreth from vacuity.  And when we have examined this, we shall understand in what sense it is meaned that Nature abhorreth from Vacuity, and what means she useth to avoid it. For, to put it as an enemy that nature fighteth against; or to discourse of effects that would follow from it, in case it were admitted, is a great mistake, and a lost labour; seeing it is nothing; and therefore, can do nothing: but is merely a form of expression to declare in short nothing else but that it is a contradiction, or implication in terms, and an impossibility in nature, for vacuity to have, or to be supposed to have a Being.  
Thus then, since in our case, after we have cast all about, we can pitch upon nothing to be considered, but that the two stones do touch one an other, and that they are weighty; we must apply ourselves only to reflect upon the effects proceeding from these two causes, their contiguity and their heaviness; and we shall find that as the one of them, namely the weight hindereth the undermost from following the uppermost, so, contiguity obligeth it unto that course; and according as the one overcometh the other, so will this action be continued or interrupted.  
Now that contiguity of substances do make one follow an other, is evident by what our Masters in Metaphysics teach us; when they show that without this effect no motion at all could be made in the world, nor no reason could be given, for those motions we daily see. For since the nature of quantity is such, that whensoever there is nothing between two parts of it, they must needs touch and adhere and join to one an other, (for how should they be kept asunder when there is nothing between them to part them?) if you pull one part away, either some new substance must come to de close unto that which removeth; or else the other which was formerly close to it, must still be close to it, and so follow it: for if nothing do come between, it is still close to it. Thus then, it being necessary that something must be joined close to every thing; vacuity, (which is nothing) is excluded from having any being in nature.  
And when we say that one body must follow an other to avoid vacuity; the meaning is, that under the necessity of a contradiction they must follow one an other, and that they can not do otherwise. For it would be a contradiction to say that nothing were between two things and yet that they are not joined close to one an other. And therefore if you should say it, you would in other words say, they are close together, and they are not close together. In like manner, to say that vacuity is any where, is a pure contradiction; for vacuity being nothing, hath no Being at all: and yet by those words it is said to be in such a place; so that they affirm it to be and not to be, att the same time.  
But now let us examine if there be no means to avoid this contradiction and vacuity, 
3 The true reas● of attraction.  other then by the adhesion, and following of one body upon the motion of an other, that is closely joined to it and every where contiguous. For sense is not easily quieted with such Metaphysical contemplations, that seem to repugn against her dictamen; and therefore for her satisfaction we can do no less than give her leave to range about, and cast all ways in hope of finding some one that may better content her: which when she findeth that she can not, she will the less repine to yield her assent to the rigorous sequeles and proofs of reason.  
In this difficulty then, after turning on every side, I for my part can discern no pretence of probability, in any other means then in pulling down the lower stone by one corner; that so there may be a gaping between the two stones, to let in air by little and little. And in this case you may say that by the intervention of air, vacuity is hindered, and yet the lower stone is left at liberty to follow its own natural inclination, and be governed by its weight. But indeed, if you consider the matter well; you will find that the doing this, requireth a much greater force, then to have the lower stone follow the upper: for it can not gape in a strait line, to let in air; since in that position, it must open at the bottom where the angle is made, at the same time that it openeth at the mouth: and then air requiring time to pass from the edges to the bottom, it must in the mean while fall into the contradiction of vacuity. So that if it should open to let in air; the stone, to compass that effect, must bend, in such sort as wood doth when a wedge is put into it to cleave it.  
judge then what force it must be that should make hard marble of a great thickness bend like a wand; and whether it would not rather break and slide off, then do so: you will allow that a much less, will raise up the lower stone together with the uppermost. It must then of necessity fall out, that it will follow it, if it be moved perpendicularly upwardly. And the like effect will be though, it should be raised at oblique angles, so that the lowermost edge do rest all the way upon some thing that may hinder the inferior stone from sliding aside from the uppermost.  

4 Water may be brought by the force of attraction to what height soever.  And this is the very case of all those other experiments of art and nature, which we have mentioned above: for the reason holdeth as well in water and in liquid things; as in solid bodies; until the weight of the liquid body overcometh the continuity of it: for then, the third breaketh, and it will ascend no higher.  
Which height, Galileo telleth us from the workmen in the Arsenal of Venice, is near 40. foot; if the water be drawn up in a close pipe, in which the advantage of the sides helpeth the ascent. But others say that the invention is enlarged, and that water may be drawn to what height one pleaseth. Howsoever, the force which nature applieth to maintain the continuity of quantity, can have no limit, seeing it is grounded upon contradiction. And therefore Galileo was much mistaken, when he through to make an instrument whereby to discover the limits of this force.  
We may then conclude that the breaking of the water must depend from the strength of other causes. As for example when the gravity is so great by increasing the bulk of the water, that it will either overcome the strength of the pipe, or else make the sucker of the pump rather yield way to air, then draw up so great a weight: for which defects, if remedies be found, the art may surely be enlarged without end.  

5 The doctrine touching the attraction of water in syphons.  This is particular in a syphon; that when, that arm of it which hangeth out of the water is lower than the superficies of the water; then, it will run of itself; after it is once set on running by sucking. The reason whereof is, because the weight which is in water pendant, is greater than the weight of the ascending water; and thereby supplieth the want of a continual sucker. But if the nose of that arm that hangeth out of the water, be but even with the water; then the water will stand still in both pipes, or arms of the syphon, after they are filled with sucking. But if by the running out of the water, the outward pipe do grow shorter than to reach as low as the superficies of the water in the fountain from whence it runneth; in this case, the water in each arm of the syphon, will run back into the fountain.  
Withal, it is to be noted, that though the arm which is out of the water be never so long, yet if it reach not lower than the superficies of the fountain; the over quantity and weight of the water there, more than in the other arm, helpeth it nothing to make it run out. Which is, because the declivity of the other arm, overrecompenceth this overweight. Not that the weight in the shorter pipe, hath so much force as the weight in the longer pipe: but because it hath more force than the greater weight doth exercise there in its running; for the greatest part of its force, tendeth an other way then to the end of the pipe; to wit, perpendicularly towards the centre. And so is hindered from effect, by the great sloping or little declivity of the pipe upon which it leaneth.  
But some considering how the water that is in the longer arm of the syphon is more in quantity then the water that is in the other arm of it whereat it runneth out, 
6 That the syphon doth not prove, water to weigh in its own orb.  do admire why the greater quantity of water doth not draw back the less into the cistern, but suffereth itself to be lifted up, and drained away as if it run steeply downwards. And they imagine, that hence may be deduced, that the parts of water in the cistern do not weigh as long as they are within the orb of their own body.  
Unto when we answer; that they should consider how that to have the greater quantity of water, which is in the longer arm of the syphon (which arm is immersed in the water of the cistern) to draw back into the cistern the water which is in the other arm of the syphon that hangeth out in the air; it must, both raise as much of the water of the cistern as its own bulk is, above the level which at present the whole bulk of water hath; and withal it must at the same time pull up the water which is in the other arm. Now it is manifest, that these two quantities of water together, are heavyer than the water in the sunk arm of the syphon; since one of them single, is equal unto it. And by consequence, the more water in the sunk arm, can not weigh back the less water in the hanging arm; since that, to do that, it must at the same time weigh up over and above, as much more in the cistern as itself weigheth.  
But turning the argument; I say, that if once the arm of the syphon that is in the air, be supposed to draw any water, be it never so little, out of the cistern (whether occasioned by sucking or by whatsoever other means) it followeth that as much water as is drawn up, above the level of the whole bulk in the cistern, must needs press into the sunken arm from the next adjacent parts, (that is, from the bottom) to supply its emptying; and as much must of itself press down from above (according to its natural course, when nothing violenteth it) to rest in the place, that the ascending water (which is lower than it) leaveth at liberty for it to take possession of. And then it can not be doubted; but that, this descending water, having all its weight in pressing down, applied to drive up the rising water in the sunk arm of the syphon; and the water in the other arm of the syphon without, having all its weight in running out applied at the same time to draw up the same water in the sunk arm; this single resistant must yield to their double and mastering force. And consequently, the water in the arm of the syphon that is in the air, must needs draw the water that is in the other immersed arm as long as the end of its pipe reacheth lower than the level of the water in the cistern; for so long it appeareth by what we have said, it must needs be more weighty; since part of the rising water in the sunk arm of the syphon, is counterpoised by as much descending water in the cistern.  
And thus it is evident, that out of this experiment it can not be inferred that parts of water do not weigh within the orb of their own whole: but only, that two equal parts of water in their own orb (namely that which riseth in the sunken arm, and that which presseth down from the whole bulk in the cistern) are of equal weight and do balance one an othet. So that never so little odds between the two counterpoising parcels of water which are in the air must needs make the water run out at that end of the syphon, where the overweight of water is.  

7 Concerning attraction caused by fire.  The attraction whose cause next to this is most manifest, is that which is made by the force of heat or of fire; for we see that fire, ever draweth air unto it; so notably, that if in a close room there be a good fire, a man that standeth at the door or at the window (especially without) shall hear such a noise that he will think there is a great wind within the chamber. The reason of this attraction is, that fire rarifying the air which is next unto it; and withal spending itself perpetually, causeth the air and his own body mingled together, to fly up through the chimney or by some other passage. Whence it followeth of necessity that the next body must succeed into the place of the body that is flown away. This next body generally is air, whose mobility and fluidity beyond all other bodies, maketh it of all others the fittest to be drawn; and the more of it that is drawn the more must needs follow. Now if there be floating in this air any other atoms subject to the current which the air taketh; they must also come with it to the fire, and by it, must be rarifyed, and be exported out of that little orb.  
Hence it is, that men (with very good reason) do hold that fire ayreth a chamber, as we term it, that is, purifieth it; both because it purifieth it as wind doth by drawing a current of air into it that sweepeth through it, or by making it purify itself by motion, as a stream of water doth by running; as also, because those vapours which approach the fire, are burned and dissolved. So that the air being noisome and unwholesome by reason of its grossness, proceeding from its standing unmoved (like a stagnation of dead water, in a marish place) the fire taketh away that cause of annoyance.  
By this very rule we learn that other hot things, 
8 Concerning attraction made by virtue of hot bodies, amulets etc.  which participate the nature of fire, must likewise (in other respects) have a resemblance in this quality. And accordingly we see that hot loafes in a bakers shop newly drawn out of the oven, are accounted to draw unto them any infection which is in the air. The like we say of onions, and other strong breathing substances; which by their smell show much heat in them. In like manner it is conceived that pigeons, and rabbits, and cats easily take infection, by reason of their extraordinary warmth which they have in themselves.  
And this is confirmed by the practice of Physicians, who use to lay warm pigeons newly killed to the feet, wrists, or heads of sick persons; and young puppies to their stomaches, and sometimes certain hot gums to their navels; to draw out such vapours or humours as infest the body: for the same reason they hang amuletes of arsenic, sublimate, dried toads or spiders, about their patient's necks, to draw unto them venomous qualities from their bodies. Hence also it is, that if a man be strucken by a viper or a scorpion, they use to break the body of the beast itself that stung him (if they can get it) upon the wound: but if that beast be crawled out of their finding, they do the like by some other venomous creature; as I have seen a bruised toad laid to the biting of a viper. And they manifestly perceive the applied body, to swell with the poison sucked out from the wound, and the patient to be relieved and have less poison; in the same manner as by cupping glasses, the poison is likewise drawn out from the wound: so that you may see, the reason of both, is the very same; or at the least very like one an other. Only, we are to note, that the proper body of the beast out of which the venom was driven into the wound, is more efficacious than any other to suck it out.  
And the like is to be observed in all other kinds, that such vapours as are to be drawn, do come better and incorporate faster in bodies of like nature, then in those which have only the common conditions of heat and dryness; the one of which serveth to attract; the other to fasten and incorporate into itself the moisture which the first draweth unto it. So we see that water soaketh into a dry body, whence it was extracted, almost inseparably, and is hidden in it; as when it raineth first after hot weather, the ground is presently dried after the shower. Likewise we see that in most ciments, 
9 The natural reason given for divers operations, esteemed by some to be magical.  you must mingle a dust of the nature of the things which are to be cemented, if you will have them bind strongly.  
Out of this discourse, we may yield a reason for those magical operations, which some attribute to the Devil's assistance; peradventure because man's wickedness hath been more ingenious than his good will; and so hath found more means to hurt then to help; nay when he hath arrived some way to help, those very helps have undergone the same calumny; because of the likeness which their operations have to the others. Without doubt very unjustly, if there be truth in the effects. For where have we any such good suggestions of the enemy of mankind proposed unto us, that we may with reason believe he would duly, settledly, and constantly concur to the help and service of all those he so much hateth, as he must needs do if he be the Author of such effects? Or is it not a wrong to almighty God, and to his careful instruments; rather to impute unto the Devil the aids which to some may seem supernatural, then unto them of whom we may justly believe and expect such good offices and assistances? I mean, those operations, both good and bad, which ordinarily are called Magnetical, though peradventure wrongfully, as not having that property which denominateth the loadstone.  
One thing I may assure, that if the reports be true, they have the perfect imitation of nature in them. As for example; that the weapons salve, or the sympathetike powder doth require in the using it, to be conserved in an equal and moderate temper: and that the weapon which made the wound, or the cloth upon which the blood remaineth that issued from it, be orderly and frequently dressed; or else the wounded person will not be cured: likewise the steam or spirits, which at the giving of the wound did enter into the pores of the weapon, must not be driven out of it, (which will be done by fire; and so when it is heated by holding over coals, you may see a moisture sweat out of the blade at the opposite side to the fire, as far as it entered into the wounded persons body; which being once all sweated out, you shall see no more the like steam upon the sword) neither must the blood be washed out of the bloody cloth; for in these cases, the powder, or salve, will work nothing. Likewise, if there be any excess either of heat or of cold in keeping the medicated weapon or cloth; the patient feeleth that, as he would do, if the like excess were in any remedy that were applied to the wound itself: likewise if the medicated weapon or bloody cloth, be kept too close, no effect followeth: likewise, the natures of the things used in these cures are of themselves sovereign for healing the like griefs though peradventure too violent if they were applied in body without much attenuation.  
And truly if we will deny all effects of this kind, we must in a manner renounce all humane faith: men of all sorts and qualities (and many of them such in my own knowledge, as I can not question their prudence in observing, or their sincerity in relating) having very frequently made experience of such medicines, and all affirming after one fashion to have found the same effects. Add to these, the multitude of other like effects, appearing or conceited to appear in other things. In some countries it is a familiar disease with kine to have a swelling in the soles of their feet: and the ordinary cure is, to cut a turf upon which they have trodden with their sore foot, and to hang it upon a hedge; and as that drieth away, so will their sore amend. In other parts they observe, that if milk newly come from the cow, do in the boiling run over into the fire; and that this do happen often, and near together to the same cow's milk; that cow will have her udder sore and inflamed: and the prevention is to cast salt immediately into the fire upon the milk. The herb Persicaria if it be well rubbed upon warts, and then be laid in some fit place to putrify, causeth the warts to wear away as it rotteth: some say the like of fresh beef. Many examples also there are of hurting living creatures by the like means; which I set not down for fear of doing more harm by the evil inclination of some persons into whose hands they may fall; then profit by their knowing them, unto whom I intent this work.  
But to make these operations of nature, not incredible; let us remember how we have determined that every body whatsoever, doth yield some steam, or vent a kind of vapour from itself; and consider, how they must needs do so most of all, that are hot and moist, as blood and milk are, and as all wounds and sores generally are. We see that the foot of a hare or dear leaveth such an impression where the beast hath passed, as a dog can discern it a long time after: and a fox breatheth out so strong a vapour, that the hunters themselves can wind it a great way of, and a good while after he is parted from the place. Now joining this, to the experiences we have already allowed of, concerning the attraction of heat; we may conclude that if any of these vapours do light upon a solid warm body, which hath the nature of a source unto them, they will naturally congregate and incorporate there; and if those vapours be joined with any medicative quality or body, they will apply that medicament better than any surgeon can apply it. Then, if the steam of blood and spirits, do carry with it from the weapon or cloth, the balsamike qualities of the salve or powder, and with them do settle upon the wound; what can follow but a bettering in it? Likewise, if the steam of the corruption that is upon the clod, do carry the drying quality of the wind which sweepeth over it when it hangeth high in the air, unto the sore part of the cow's foot; why is it not possible that it should dry the corruption there, as well as it drieth it upon the hedge? And if the steam of burned milk can hurt by carrying fire to the dug; why should not salt cast upon it, be a preservative against it? Or rather, why should not salt hinder the fire from being carried thither? Since the nature of salt, always hindereth and suppresseth the activity of fire: as we see by experience when we throw salt into the fire below, to hinder the flaming of soute in the top of a chimney: which presently ceaseth, when new fire from beneath doth not continue it. And thus we might proceed in sundry other effects, to declare the reason and the possibility of them; were we certain of the truth of them: therefore we remit this whole question, to the authority of the testimonies.   

THE NINETEENTH CHAPTER. Of three other motions belonging to particular body's Filtration, Restitution, and electrical attraction.  

1 What is Filtration; and how it is effected.  AFter these, let us cast our eye upon an other motion, very familiar among Alchemissts; which they call Filtration. It is effected by putting one end of a tongue, or label of flannen, or of cotton, or of flax, into a vessel of water, and letting the other end hang over the brim of it. And it will by little and little draw all the water out of that vessel (so that the end which hangeth out be lower than the superficies of the water) and will make it all come over into any lower vessel you will reserve it in.  
The end of this operation is, when any water is mingled with gross and muddy parts (not dissolved in the water) to separate the pure and light ones from the impure. By which we are taught that the lighter parts of the water, are those which most easily do catch. And if we will examine in particular, how it is likely this business passeth; we may conceive that the body or linguet by which ●h● water ascendeth, being a dry one, some lighter parts of the water, whose chance it is to be near the climbing body of flax, do begin to stick fast unto it: and then, they require nothing near so great force, nor so much pressing, to make them climb up along the flax, as they would do to make them mount in the pure air. As you may see, if you hold a stick in running water, shelving against the stream: the water will run up along the stick, much higher than it could be forced up in the open air without any support, though the Agent were much stronger than the current of the stream. And a ball will upon a rebound, run much higher up a shelving board, than it would if nothing touched it. And I have been told that if an eggshell filled with dew be set at ●he foot of a hollow stick, the sun will draw it to the top of the shelving stick, whereas without a prop, it will not stir it.  
With much more reason then, we may conceive that water finding as it were little steps in the cotton to facilitate its journey upwardly, must ascend more easily than those other things do, so as it once receive any impulse to drive it upwardly: for the gravity both of that water which is upon the cotton, as also, of so many of the confining parts of water as can reach the cotton; is exceedingly allayed, either by sticking unto the cotton, and so weighing in one bulk with ●hat dry body; or else, by not tending down strait to the centre, but resting as it were upon a steep plain (according to what we said of the arm of a syphon that hangeth very sloping out of the water, and therefore draweth not after it a less proportion of water in the other arm that is more in a direct line to the centre:) by which means the water, as soon as it beginneth to climb, cometh to stand in a kind of cone; nether breaking from the water below, (its bulk, being big enough to reach unto it) nor yet falling down unto it.  
But our chief labour must be, 
2 What causeth the water in filtration to ascend.  to find a cause that may make the water begin to ascend. To which purpose, consider how water, of its own nature, compresseth itself together, to exclude any other body lighter than it is. Now in respect of the whole mass of the water, those parts which stick to the cotton, are to be accounted much lighter than water; not, because in their own nature they are so; but for the circumstances which accompany them, and do give them a greater disposition to receive a motion upwardly then much lighter bodies, whiles they are destitute of such helps. Wherefore, as the bulk of water weighing and striving downwards; it followeth that if there were any air mingled with it, it would, to possess a lesser place, drive out the air: so here in this case, the water that is at the foot of the ladder of cotton, ready to climb with a very small impulse, may be after some sort compared (in respect of the water) to air by reason of the lightness of it: and consequently, is forced up by the compressing of the rest of the water round about it. Which no faster getteth up, but other parts at the foot of the ladder do follow the first, and drive them still upwardly along the tow; and new ones drive the second, and others the third, and so forth. So that with ease they climb up to the top of the filter, still driving one an other forwardly, as you may do a fine towel through a muskett barrel: which though it be too limber to be thrust strait through; yet cramming still new parts into it at the length you will drive the first quite through.  
And thus, when these parts of water are got up to the top of the vessel on which the filter hangeth, and over it on the other side by sticking still to the tow, and by their natural gravity, against which nothing presseth on this side the label; they fall down again by little and little, and by drops break again into water in the vessel set to receive them.  
But now if you ask why, it will not drop unless the end of the label that hangeth, 
3 Why the filter will not drop unless the label hang lower than the water.  be lower than the water. I conceive it is because the water which is all along upon the flannen, is one continued body hanging together, as it were a third of wire; and is subject to like accidents as such a continued body is. Now suppose you lay a wire upon the edge of the basin, which the filter resteth upon; and so make that edge the centre to balance it upon: if the end that is outermost be heavyest, it will weigh down the other; otherwise, not. So fareth it with this third of water: if the end of it that hangeth out of the pot, that is to be filtered be longer, and consequently heavyer, then that which riseth; it must needs raise the other upwardly, and fall itself downwards. Now the raising of the other, implieth lifting more water from the cistern, and the sliding of itself further downwards, is the cause of its converting into drops. So that the water in the cistern serveth like the flax upon a distaff, and is spun into a third of water, still as it cometh to the flannen by the drawing it up, occasioned by the overweight of the third on the other side of the centre.  
Which to express better by a similitude in a solid body: I remember I have oftentimes seen in a Mercer's shop, a great heap of massy goldlace lie upon their stall; and a little way above it a round smooth pin of wood, over which they use to hale their lace when they wind it into bottoms. Now over this pin, I have put one end of the lace; and as long as it hung no lower then the board vpon which the rest of the lace did lie, it stirred not; for as the weight of the loose end carried it one way, so the weight of the other side where the whole was, drew it the other way, and in this manner kept it in equilibrity. But as soon as I drew on the hanging end to be heavyer then the climbing side (for no more weigheth then is in the air, that which lieth upon the board, having an other centre) than it began to roll to the ground; and still drew up new parts of that which lay upon the board, until all was tumbled down upon the floor. In the same manner it happeneth to the water; in which, the third of it upon the filter is to be compared fitly unto that part of the lace which hung upon the pin; and the whole quantity in the cistern, is like the bulk of lace upon the shoppeboard; for as fast as the filter draweth it up, it is converted into a third like that which is already upon the filter: in like manner as the wheel converteth the flax into yarn, as fast as it draweth it out from the distaff.  

4 Of the motion of Restitution: and why some bodies stand bend, others not.  Our next consideration, will very aptly fall upon the motion of those things, which being bend, do leap with violence to their former figure: whereas others return but a little; and others do stand in that ply, wherein the bending of them hath set them. For finding the reason of which effects, our first reflection may be to note, that a superficies which is more long then broad, containeth a less floor then that whose sides are equal, or nearer being equal: and that of those surfaces whose lines and angles are all equal, that which hath most sides and angles, containeth still the greater floor. Whence it is that Mathematicians conclude a circle to be the most capacious of all figures: and what they say of lines in respect of a superficies; the same, with proportion they say of surfaces in respect of the body contained. And accordingly we see by consequence, that in the making a bag of a long napkin, if the napkin be sowed together longwise, it holdeth a great deal less than if it be sowed together broadwise.  
By this we see plainly, that if any body which is in a thick and short figure, be forced into a thinner (which by becoming thinner, must likewise become either longer or broader; for what it looseth one way it must get an other) than that superfieys must needs be stretched▪ which in our case, is a Physical outside, or material part of a solid body, not a Mathematical consideration of an indivisible Entity. We see also that this change of figures happeneth in the bending of all those bodies; whereof we are now enquiring the reason why some of them restore themselves to their original figures, and others stand as they are bend.  
Then to begin with the latter sort, we find that they are of a moist nature; as among metals, lead, and tin, and among other bodies, those which we account soft. And we may determine that this effect proceedeth, partly from the humidity of the body that standeth bend; and partly from a dryness peculiar to it that comprehendeth and fixeth the humidity of it. For by the first, they are rendered capable of being driven into any figure, which nature or art desireth: and by the second, they are preserved from having their gravity put them out of what figure they have once received.  
But because these two conditions, are common to all solid bodies, we may conclude, that if no other circumstance concurred, the effect arising out of them would likewise be common to all such: and therefore, where we find it otherwise, we must seek further for a cause of that transgression. As for example, if you bend the bodies of young trees, or the branches of others, they will return to their due figure. It is true, they will sometime lean towards that way they have been bend: as may be seen, even in great trees after violent tempests; and generally the heads of trees, and the ears of corn, and the grown hedgerowes, will all bend one way in some countries, where some one wind hath a main predominance and reigneth most continually, as near the seashore upon the western coast of England (where the south-west wind bloweth constantly the greatest part of the year) may be observed: but this effect proceeding from a particular and extraordinary cause, concerneth not our matter in hand.  
We are to examine the reason of the motion of Restitution, which we generally see in young trees, and branches of others, as we said before. In such, we see that the earthy part which maketh them stiff (or rather, stark) aboundeth more in them then in the others that stand as they are bend: at the least in proportion to their natures; but I conceive this is not the cause of the effect we inquire about; but that it is a subtle spirit which hath a great proportion of fire in it. For as in rarefaction, we found that fire, which was either within or without the body to be rarifyed, did cause the rarefaction, either by entering into it, or by working within it: so seeing here the question is, for a body to go out of a lesser superficies into a greater (which is the progress of rarefaction; and happeneth in the motion of restitution;) the work must needs be done by the force of heat. And because, this effect proceedeth evidently, out of the nature of the thing in which it is wrought, and not from any outward cause, we may conclude it hath its origine from a heat that is within the thing itself or else that was in it, and may be pressed to the outward parts of it, and would sink into it again.  
As for example, when a young tree is bended; both every man's conceit is, and the nature of the thing maketh us believe, that the force which bringeth the tree back again to its figure, cometh from the inner side that is bend; which is compressed together, as being shrunk into a circular figure from a strait one: for when solid bodies that were plain on both sides, are bend so as on each side to make a portion of a circle, the convexe superficies will be longer than it was before, when it was plain, but the concave will be shorter. And therefore we may conceive that the spirits which are in the contracted part, (being there squeezed into less room, than their nature well brooketh) do work themselves into a greater space; or else, that the spirits which are crushed out of the convexe side by the extension of it, but do remain besieging it, and do strive to get in again, (in such manner as we have declared when we spoke of attraction, wherein we showed how the emitted spirits of any body will move to their own source, and settle again in it, if they be within a convenient compass;) and accordingly do bring back the extended parts to their former situation; or rather that both these causes do in their kinds concur to drive the tree into its natural figure.  

5 Why some bodies return only in part to their natural figure; others entirely.  But as we see when a stick is broken, it is very hard to replace all the splinters, every one in its proper situation; so it must of necessity fall out in this bending, that certain insensible parts both inward and outward are thereby displaced, and can hardly be perfectly rejointed. Whence it followeth that as you see the splinters of a half broken stick, meeting with one an other do hold the stick somewhat crooked; so these invisible parts do the like in such bodies as after bending stand a little that way. But because they are very little ones, the tree or the branch that hath been never so much bended, may (so nothing be broken in it) be set strait again by pains, without any notable detriment of its strength. And thus you see the reason of some bodies returning in part to their natural figure, after the force leaveth them that did bend them.  
Out of which you may proceed to those bodies that restore themselves entirely: whereof steel is the most eminent. And of it, we know that there is a fiery spirit in it, which may be extracted out of it, not only by the long operations of calcining, digesting and distilling it; but even by gross heating it, and then extinguishing it in wine and other convenient liquors, as Physicians use to do. Which is also confirmed by the burning of steel dust in the flame of a candle, before it hath been thus wrought upon, which afterwards it will not do: whereby we are taught that originally there are store of spirits in steel, till they are sucked out. Being then assured, that in steel there is such abundance of spirits; and knowing that it is the nature of spirits to give a quick motion; and seeing that duller spirits in trees do make this motion of Restitution; we need seek no further, what it is that doth it in steel, or in any other things that have the like nature: which through the multitude of spirits that abound in them (especially steel) do return back with so strong a jerk, that their whole body will tremble a great while after, by the force of its own motion.  
By what is said, 
6 Concerning the nature of those bodies which do shrink and stretch.  the nature of those bodies which do shrink and stretch, may easily be understood: for they are generally composed of stringy parts, unto which, if humidity happen to arrive, they grow thereby thicker and shorter. As we see that drops of water getting into a new rope of a well, or into a new cable, will swell it much thicker, and by consequence, make it shorter. Galileus noteth such wetting to be of so great efficacy, that it will shrink a new cable, and shorten it notably; notwithstanding, the violence of a tempest and the weight and jerks of a loaden ship, do strain it what is possible for them to stretch it. Of this nature, leather seemeth to be, and parchment, and divers other things, which if they be proportionably moistened, (and no exterior force be applied to extend them) will shrink up; but if they be overwetted, they will become flaccide. Again, if they be suddenly dried, they will shrivel up; but if they be fairly dried after moderate wetting, they will extend themselves again to their first length.  
The way having been opened by what we have discoursed, 
7 How great and wonderful effects, proceed from small, plain, and simple principles.  before we came to the motion of Restitution, towards the discovery of the manner how heavy bodies may be forced upwardly contrary to their natural motion, by very small means in outward appearance; let us now examine (upon the same grounds) if like motions to this of water, may not be done in some other bodies in a subtler manner. In which, more or less, needeth not trouble us; since we know, that neither quantity, nor the operations of it, do consist in an indivisible, or are limited to determined periodes they may not pass. It is enough for us to find a ground for the possibility of the operation: and then the perfecting of it and the reducing it to such a height as at the first might seem impossible and incredibile, we may leave to the oeconomy of wise nature. He that learneth to read, write, or to play on the lute, is in the beginning, ready to lose hart at every step; when he considereth with what labour, difficulty and slowness, he joineth the letters, spelleth syllabes, formeth characters, fitteth and breaketh his fingers (as though they were upon the rack) to stop the right frets and to touch the right strings. And yet you see how strange a dexterity is gained in all these by industry and practice; and a readiness beyond what we could imagine possible, if we saw not daily the effects.  
If then we can but arrive to decipher the first characters of the hidden Alphabet we are now taking in hand, and can but spellingly read the first syllabes of it; we need not doubt, but that the wise Author of nature in the masterpiece of the creature (which was to express the excellency of the workman) would with excellent cunning and art dispose all circumstances so aptly, as to speak readily a complete language rising from those Elements; and that should have as large an extent in practice and expression, beyond those first principles, which we like children only lisp out; as the vast discourses of wisest and most learned men, are beyond the spellinge of infants: and yet those discourses spring from the same root, as the others spellinges do, and are but a raising of them to a greater height; as the admired music of the best player of a lute or harp, that ever was, is derived from the harsh twanges of course bowestringes, which are composed together, and refined, till at length they arrive to that wonderful perfection. And so without scruple, we may in the business we are next falling upon, conclude that the admirable and almost miraculous effects we see, are but the elevating to a wonderful height those very actions and motions which we shall produce as causes and principles of them.  

8 Concerning electrical attraction, and the causes of it.  Letter us than suppose, that there is a solid hard body, of an unctuous nature; whose parts are so subtle and fiery, that with a little agitation they are much rarifyed, and do breath out in steames, (though they be too subtle for our eyes to discern) like unto the steam that issueth from sweeting men or horses, or like the steam that flieth from a candle when it is put out: but that these steames, as soon as they come into the cold air, are by that cold suddenly condensed again; and by being condensed, do shorten themselves, and by little and little do retire, till they settle themselves upon the body from whence they sprung: in such manner as you may observe, the little tender horns of snails use to shrink back if any thing touch them, till they settle in little lumps upon their heads. If I say these strings of bituminous vapour should in their way outwardly meet with any light and spongy body, they would pierce into it, and settle in it; and if it were of a competent bigness for them to wield, they would carry it with them which way soever they go; so that if they shrink back again to the fountain from whence they came, they must needs carry back with them the light spongy body they have fixed their darts in.  
Consider then, that how much heat rarifyeth, so much cold condenseth: and therefore such parts as by agitation were spun out into a subtle third of an inch long for example, as they cool, do grow bigger and bigger, and consequently shorter and shorter, till at length, they gather themselues back into their main body; and there they settle again in cold bitumen as they were at the first; and the light body that they stick unto, is drawn back with them, and consequently sticketh to the superficies of the bitumen. As if something were tied at one end of a lutestring extended to its utmost capacity, and the other end were fastened to some pin; as the string shrinketh up, so that which is tied at it, must needs move nearer and nearer the pin: which artifice of nature jugglers do imitate, when by means of an unseen hair, they draw light bodies to them. Now if all this operation be done, without your seeing the little thriddes which cause it; the matter appeareth wonderful and strange. But when you consider this progress that we have set down, you will judge it possible.  
And this seemeth to be the case of those bodies which we call electrical; as yellow amber, jet, and the like. All which, are of a bituminous unctuous nature, as appeareth by their easy combustibility and smell, when they are burned. And if some do not so apparently show this unctuous nature, it is because either they are too hard, or else they have a high degree of aqueous humidiry joined with their unctuosity: and in them the operation will be duller in that proportion; for as we see that unctuous substances are more odoriferous than others, and do send their steames further off, and more efficaciously; so we can not doubt but that such bodies as consist in a moist nature do accordingly send forth their emanations in a feebler proportion. Yet that proportion will not be so feeble, but that they may have an electrical effect, as well as the more efficacious electrical bodies, which may be perceptible, if exact experience be made by an instrument like the mariners needle; as our learned countryman Doctor Gilbert teacheth.  
But that in those eminent agents, the spirits, whereby they attract, are unctuous, is plain, because the fire consumeth them; and so if the agents be overheated they can not work; but moderate heat even of fire increaseth their operation. Again, they are clogged by misty air, or by wetting: and likewise, are pierced through and cut asunder by spirit of wine or aquae ardentes; but oil doth not hurt them. Likewise, they yield more spirits in the sun then in the shade; and they continue longer, when the air is cleared by North or by Eastern winds. They require to be polished, either because the rubbing which polisheth them, doth take off from their surfaces the former emanations, which returning back do stick upon them, and so do hinder the passage of those that are within; or else, because their outsides may be foul; or lastly, because the pores may be dilated by that smoothing. Now that hardness and solidity is required; doth argue that these spirits must be quick ones, that they may return smartly, and not be lost through their languishing in the air. Likewise, that all bodies which are not either exceeding rare, or else set on fire, may be drawn by these unctuous thriddes; concludeth that the quality by which they do it, is a common one that hath no particular contrarieties; such a one as we see is in grease or in pitch to stick to any thing; from which, in like manner nothing is exempted but fire and air. And lastly, that they work most efficaciously, when they are heated by rubbing, rather than by fire; showeth that their spirits are excitated by motion, and are thereby made to fly abroad; in such manner as we see in pomanders, and in other perfumes, which must be heated if you will have them communicate their scent: and alike effect as in them, agitation doth in jet, yellow amber, and such other electrical bodies; for if upon rubbing them, you put them presently to your nose, you will discern a strong bituminous smell in them; all which circumstances do show that this electrical virtue, consisteth in a certain degree of rarity or density of the bodies unctuous emanations.  
Now if these refined and viscous thriddes of jet or amber, do in their streaming abroad meet with a piece of straw, or of hay, or of a dried leaf, or some such light and spongy body; it is no marvel if they glue themselves unto it like birdlime; and that in their shrinking back (by being condensed again and repulsed, through the coldness of the air) they carry it along with them to their entire body. Which they that only see the effect, and can not penetrate into a possibility of a natural cause thereof, are much troubled withal.  
And this seemeth unto me to bear a fairer semblance of truth, than what Cabeus delivereth for cause of electrical attractions. 
9 Cabeus his opinion refuted concerning the cause of electrical motion's.  Whose speculation herein, though I can not allow for solid, yet I must for ingenious. And certainly even errors are to be commended, when they are witty ones, and do proceed from a casting further about, than the beaten track of verbal learning, or rather terms which explicate not the nature of the thing in question. He saith that the coming of straws and such other light bodies unto amber, jet, and the like, proceedeth from a wind raised by the forcible breaking out of subtle emanations from the electrical bodies into the air, which bringeth those light bodies along with it to the electrical ones.  
But this discourse can not hold: for first, it is not the nature of unctuous emanations (Generally speaking) to cause smart motions singly of themselves. Secondly, although they should raise a wind, I do not comprehend how this wind should drive bodies directly back to the source that raised it; but rather any other way; and so consequently, should drive the light bodies it meeteth with in its way, rather from, then towards the electrical body. Thirdly, if there should be such a wind raised, and it should bring light bodies to the electrical ones; yet it could not make them stick thereunto, which we see they do, turn them which way you will, as though they were glued together.  
Neither do his experiences convince any thing; for what he saith that the light bodies are sometimes brought to the electrical body with such a violence, that they rebound back from it, and then return again to it, maketh rather against him: for if wind were the cause of their motion, they would not return again, after they had leapt back from the electrical body; no more than we can imagine that the wind itself doth.  
The like is of his other experience, when he observed that some little grains of sawdust hanging at an electrical body, the furthermost of them not only fell of, but seemed to be driven away forcibly: for they did not fall directly down, but sidewayes; and besides did fly away with a violence and smartness that argued some strong impulse. The reason whereof might be, that new emanations might smite them, which not sticking and fastening upon them, whereby to draw them nearer, must needs push them further: or it might be that the emanations unto which they were glued, shrinking back unto their main body, the latter grains were shouldered of by others that already besieged the superficies; and then the emanations retiring swiftly the grains must break of with a force: or else, we may conceive it was the force of the air that bore them up a little, which made an appearance of their being driven away; as we see feathers and other light things descend not strait down.   

THE TWENTIETH CHAPTER. Of the Lodestones generation; and its particular motions.  
THere is yet remaining, 
1 The extreme heat of the sun under the zodiac, draweth a stream of air from each Pole into the torride zone.  the great mystery of the Loadstone to discourse of. Which all Authors, both ancient and modern, have agreed upon as an undeniable example and evidence, of the shortness of man's reach in comprehending, and of the impossibility of his reason in penetrating into, and explicating such secrets, as nature hath a mind to hide from us. Wherefore our reader (I am sure) will not in this subject expect clear satisfaction or plain demonstrations, at our hands: but will judged we have fairly acquitted ourselves, if what we say be any whitt plausible.  
Therefore, to use our best endeavours to content him; let us reflect upon the disposition of parts of this habitable globe, whereof we are tenants for lives. And we shall find that the sun by his constant course under the zodiac, heateth a great part of it unmeasurably more than he doth the rest. And consequently, that this zodiac being in the midst between two (as it were) ends, which we call the Poles, these poles must necessarily be extremely cold, in respect of the torride zone; for so we call that part of the earth which lieth under the zodiac.  
Now looking into the consequence of this; we find that the sun, or the sun's heat which reflecteth from the earth in the torride zone, must rarify the air extremely, and according to the nature of all heat and fire, must needs carry away from thence, many parts of the air and of the earth sticking to that heat, in such sort as we have formerly declared.  
Whence it followeth, that other air must necessarily come from the regions towards both the poles, to supply what is carried away from the middle, as is the course in other fires, and as we have explicated above: especially considering, that the air which cometh from the polewardes, is heavyer than the air of the torride zone; 
Chap. 18. §. 7.  and therefore, must naturally press to be still nearer the earth; and so, as it were shouldereth up the air of the torride zone towards the circumference, by rolling into its place: and this, in great quantities; and consequently, the polar air must draw a great train after it.  
Which if we consider the great extent of the torride zone, we shall easily persuade ourselves, that it must reach on each side, to the very pole: for taking from Archimedes, that the spherical superficies of a portion of a spher●, is to the superficies of the whole sphere, according as the part of the axis of that sphere comprised within the said portion, is to the whole axis: and considering that (in our case) the part of the axis comprised within the torride zone, is to the whole axis of the earth, in about the proportion of 4. to 10; it must of necessity follow that a fire or great heat reigning in so vast an extent, will draw air very powerfully from the rest of the world.  
Neither let any man apprehend that this course of the sun's elevating so great quantities of atoms in the torride zone, should hinder the course of gravity there: for first the medium is much rarer in the torride zone then in other parts of the earth; and therefore the force of the descending atoms, needeth not to be so great there as in other places, to make bodies descend there as fast as they do else where. Secondly, there being a perpetual supply of fresh air from the polar parts, streaming continually into the torride zone; it must of necessity happen that in the air there come atoms to the torride zone, of that grossness that they can not suddenly be so much rarifyed as the subtler parts of air that are there: and therefore, the more those subtler parts are rarifyed, and thereby happen to be carried up, the stronger and the thicker the heavyer atoms must descend. And thus this concourse of air from the polar parts, mainetayneth gravity under the zodiac; where otherwise all would be turned into fire, and so have no gravity.  

2 The atoms of these two streams coming together are apt to incorporate with one an other.  Now, who considereth the two hemispheres which by the aequator are divided; will find that they are not altogether of equal complexions; but that our hemisphere, in which the Northpole is comprised, is much drier than the other, by reason of the greater continent of land in this, and the vaster tract of sea in the other; and therefore the supply which cometh from the divers hemispheres, must needs be of different natures; that which cometh from towards the Southpole, being compared to that which cometh from towards the North, as the more wet to the more dry. Yet of how different complexions soever they be, you see they are the emanations of one and the same body. Not unlike unto what nature hath instituted in the rank of animals: among whom, the male and the female are so distinguished by heat and cold, moisture and drought; that nevertheless all belongeth, but to one nature; and that, in degrees though manifestly different, yet so near together that the body of one is in a manner the same thing, as the body of the other. Even so, the complexions of the two hemispheres are in such sort different in the same qualities, that nevertheless they are of the same nature▪ and are unequal parts of the same body which we call the earth. Now Alchemissts assure us, that if two extractions of one body do meet together they will incorporate one with the other; especially, if there be some little difference in the complexion of the extractions.  
Whence it followeth that these two streams of air, 
3 By the meeting and mingling together of these streams at the Equator, divers rivulets of atoms of each Pole, are continuat●d from one Pole to the other.  making up one continuate flood of various currents, from one end of the world to the other; each stream that cometh to the equator from its own Pole, by the extraction of the sun, and that is still supplied with new matter flowing from its own pole to the aequator, before the sun can sufficiently rarify and lift up the atoms that came first perpendicularly under its beams (as it useth to happen in the effects of Physical causes, which can not be rigorously aiusted, but must have some latitude; in which, nature inclineth ever rather to abundance then to defect,) will pass, even to the other pole, by the conduct of his fellow, in case he be by some occasion driven back homewards.  
For as we see in a bowl or pail full of water, or rather in a pipe, through which the water runneth along; if there be a little hole at the bottom or side of it, the water will wriggle and change its course to creep out at that pipe; especially if there be a little spigott, or quill at the outside of the hole, that by the narrow length of it helpeth in some sort (as it were) to suck it. So if any of the files of the army or flould of atoms sucked from one of the Poles to the aequator, do there find any gaps, or chinks, or lanes of retiring files in the front of the other poles battalions of atoms, they will press in there: in such manner as we have above declared that water doth by the help of a label of cotton▪ and as is exemplyfied in all the attractions of venom by venomous bodies whereof we have given many examples above: and they will go along with them the course they go. For as when a thick short guilded ingott of silver is drawn out into a long subtle wire; the wire continuing still perfectly guilded all over, doth manifestly show that the outside and the inside of the ingott, do strangely meet together, and intermix in the drawing out: so this little stream which (like an eddy current) runneth back from the aequator towards its own Pole, will continue to the end still tincted with the mixture of the other Poles atoms, it was incorporated with at its coming to the aequator.  
Now that some little rivulets of air and atoms should run back to their own Pole, contrary to the course of their main stream will be easily enough to conceive; if we but consider that at certain times of the year winds do blow more violently and strongly from some determinate part or Rombe of the world, than they do at other times and from other parts. As for example▪ our East India Mariners tell us of the famous Mon●ones they find in those parts; which are strong winds that reign constantly six months of the year from one polewardes, and the other six months, from the other pole, and begin precisely about the sun's entering into such a sign or degree of the zodiac, and continue till about its entrance into the opposite degree. And in our parts of the world certain smart Easterly or Northeasterly winds do reign about the end of March and beginning of April; when it seemeth that some snows are melted by the spring heats of the sun. And other winds have their courses in other seasons, upon other causes. All which do evidently convince, that the course of the air, and of vapours from the poles to the equator, can not be so regular and uniform, but that many impediments and crosses, do light in the way, to make breaches in it; and thereby to force it in some places to an opposite course. In such sort as we see happeneth in eddy waters, and in the course of a tide, wherein the stream running swiftly in the middle, beateth the edges of the water to the shore, and thereby maketh it run back at the shore. And hence we may conclude, that although the main course of air and atoms (for example from north to south, in our hemisphere) can never fail of going on towards the aequator, constantly at the same rate, in gross; neverthlesse, in several particular little parts of it (and especially at the edges of those streams that are driven on faster than the rest, by an extraordinary and accidental violent cause) it is variously interrupted, and sometimes entirely stopped, and other times even driven back to the northwards.  
And if peradventure any man should think that this will not fall out, because each stream seemeth to be always coming from his own Pole to the aequator, and therefore will oppose and drive back any bodies that with less force should strive to swim against it; or if they stick unto them, will carry them back to the aequator. We answer, that we must not conceive that the whole air in body doth every where equally encroach from the polewardes upon the torride zone; but, as it were in certain brooks or rivulets, according as the contingency of all causes put together doth make it fall out.  
Now then out of what we have said it will follow; that since all the air in this our hemisphere is as it were strewed over and sowed with abundance of northern atoms, and that some brooks of them are in station, others in a motion of retrogradation back to their own north pole; the southern atoms (which coming upon them at the equator do not only press in among them, wheresoever they can find admittance, but do also go on fowardes to the north pole in several files by themselves, being driven that way by the same accidental causes, which make the others retire back) seizing in their way upon the northern ones in such manner as we described in filtration; and thereby creeping along by them wheresoever they find them standing still, and going along with them, wheresoever they find them going back; must of necessity find passage in great quantities towards, and even to the north pole; though some parts of them will ever and anon be checked in this their journey, by the main current prevailing over some accidental one, and so be carried back again to the aequator, whose line they had crossed.  
And this effect can not choose but be more or less according to the seasons of the year: for when the sun is in the Tropic of Capricorn, the southern atoms will flow in much more abundance, and with far greater speed, into the torride zone, than the northern atoms can; by reason of the sun's approximation to the south, and his distance from the north pole; since he worketh faintest, where he is furthest off: and therefore from the north no more emanations or atoms will be drawn, but such as are most subtilised, and duly prepared for that course. And since only these selected bands do now march towards the aequator, their files must needs be thinner, than when the suns being in the aequator or Tropike of Cancer wakeneth and mustereth up all their forces. And consequently, the quiett parts of air between their files (in which like atoms are also scattered) are the greater: whereby the advenient southern atoms have the larger filter to climb up by. And the like happeneth in the other hemisphere, when the sun is in the Tropic of Cancer; as who will bestow the pains to compare them, will presently see.  
Now then let us consider what these two streams thus incorporated must of necessity do in the surface or upper parts of the earth. 
4 Of these atoms incorporated with some fit matter in the bowels of the earth, is made a stone.  First it is evident they must needs penetrate a pretty depth into the earth; for so freezing persuadeth us, and much more, the subtle penetration of divers more spiritual bodies, of which we have sufficiently discoursed above. Now let us conceive that these steames, do find a body of a convenient density to incorporate themselves in, in the way of density, as we see that fire doth in iron, and in other dense bodies: and this not for an hour or two as happeneth in fire; but for years: as I have been told that in the extreme cold hills in the Peake in Darbyshire happeneth to the dry atoms of cold, which are permanently incorporated in water by long continual freezing and so make a kind of crystal.  
In this case, certainly it must come to pass that this body will become in a manner wholly of the nature of these steames: which because they are drawn from the Poles that abound in cold and dryness, (for others that have not these qualities, do not contribute to the intended effect) the body is aptest to become a stone: 
5 This stone worketh by emanations, joined with agreeing streams that meet them in the air; and in fine it is a loadstone.  for so we see that cold and drought, turneth the superficial parts of the earth into stones and rocks; and accordingly, wheresoever cold and dry winds reign powerfully, all such countries are mainly rocky.  
Now then let us suppose, this stone to be taken out of the earth and hanged in the air, or set conveniently upon some little pin, or otherwise put in liberty, so as a small impulse may easily turn it any way: it will in this case certainly follow that the end of the stone which in the earth lay towards the north pole, will now in the air convert itself in the same manner towards the same point; and the other end which lay towards the south, turn by consequence to the south. I speak of these countries which lie between the aequator and the North; in which it can not choose but that the stream going from the north to the aequator, must be stronger than the opposite one.  
Now to explicate, how this is done; suppose the stone hanged east and west freely in the air; the stream which is drawn from the north pole of the earth rangeth along by it in its course to the aequator; and finding in the stone the south steam, (which is grown innate to it) very strong, it must needs incorporate itself with it; and most, by those parts of the steam in the stone which are strongest: which are they that come directly from the North of the stone; by which I mean that part of the stone that lay northward in the earth, and that still looketh to the north pole of the earth now it is in the air. And therefore the great flood of atoms coming from the north pole of the earth will incorporate itself most strongly, by the north end of the stone with the little flood of southern atoms it findeth in the stone: for that end serveth for the coming out of the southern atoms, and sendeth them abroad; as the south end doth the northern steam, since the steames do come in at one end, and do go out at the opposite end.  
From hence we may gather, that this stone will join and cleave to its attractive, whensoever it happeneth to be within the sphere of its activity. Besides if by some accident it should happen that the atoms or steames which are drawn by the sun from the Polewardes to the aequator, should come stronger from some part of the earth, which is on the side hand of the Pole, then from the very Pole itself; in this case the stone will turn from the Pole towards that side. Lastly, whatsoever this stone will do towards the Pole of the earth; the very same a lesser stone of the same kind will do towards a greater. And if there be any kind of other substance that hath participation of the nature of this stone, such a substance will behave itself towards this stone, in the same manner, as such a stone behaveth itself towards the earth: all the Phenomens' whereof, may be the more plainly observed, if the stone be cut into the form of the earth.  
And thus, we have found a perfect delineation of the loadstone from its causes: for there is no man so ignorant of the nature of a loadstone, but he knoweth that the properties of it are to tend towards the North; to vary sometimes; to join with an other loadstone; to draw iron unto it; and such like, whose causes you see delivered.  
But to come to experimental proofs and observations upon the loadstone by which it will appear, that these causes are well esteemed and applied, 
6 A method for making experiences upon any subject.  we must be beholding to that admirable searcher of the nature of the loadstone Doctor Gilbert; by means of whom and of Doctor Harvey, our Nation may claim even in this latter age as deserved a crown for solid Philosophical learning as for many ages together it hath done formerly for acute and subtle speculations in Divinity. But before I fall to particulars, I think it worth warning my Reader, how this great man arrived to discover so much of Magnetical Philosophy; that he likewise, if he be desirous to search into nature, may by imitation advance his thoughts and knowledge that way.  
In short then, all the knowledge he got of this subject, was by forming a little loadstone into the shape of the earth. By which means he compassed a wonderful design, which was, to make the whole globe of the earth maniable: for he found the properties of the whole earth, in that little body; which he therefore called a Tertella, or little earth; and which he could manage and try experiences upon, at his will. And in like manner, any man that hath an aim to advance much in natural sciencies, must endeavour to draw the matter he enquireth of, into some small model, or into some kind of manageable method; which he may turn and wind as he pleaseth. And then let him be sure, if he hath a competent understanding, that he will not miss of his mark.  
But to our intent; the first thing we are to prove is, that the loadstone is generated in such sort as we have described: 
7 The Loadestones generation by atoms flowing from both Poles, is confirmed by experiments observed in the stone itself.  for proof whereof, the first ground we will lay, shall be to consider how in divers other effects it is manifest, that the differences of being exposed to the north or to the south, do cause very great variety in the same thing: as hereafter, we shall have occasion to touch, in the barks and grains of trees, and the like. Next, we find by experience, that this virtue of the loadstone is received into other bodies that resemble its nature, by heatinges and coolinges: for so it passeth in iron bars, which being throughly heated▪ and then laid to cool north and south, are thereby imbued with a Magnetike virtue; heat opening their bodies, and disposing them to suck in, such atoms as are convenient to their nature, that flow unto them whiles they are cooling. So that we can not boubt, but that convenient matter fermenting in its warm bed under the earth, becometh a loadstone by the like sucking in of affluent streams of a like complexion to the former.  
And it fareth in like manner with those fiery instruments (as fireforkes, tongues, shovels, and the like) which do stand constantly upwardly and downwards; for they, by being often heated and cooled again, do gain a very strong verticity, or turning to the Pole: and indeed, they can not stand upwardly and downwards so little a while, but that they will in that short space gain a manifest verticity; and change it at every turning. Now since the force and vigour of this verticity, is in the end that standeth downwards; it is evident that this effect proceedeth out of an influence received from the earth.  
And because in a loadstone (made into a globe, or considered so, to the end you may reckon hemispheres in it, as in the great earth) either hemisphere giveth unto a needle touched upon it, not only the virtue of that hemisphere where it is touched, but likewise the virtue of the contrary hemisphere; we may boldly conclude that the virtue which a loadstone is impregnated with in the womb or bed of the earth, where it is form and groweth, proceedeth as well from the contrary hemisphere of the earth, as from that wherein it lieth; in such sort, as we have above described. And as we feel oftentimes in our own bodies, that some cold we catch remaineth in us a long while after the taking it, and that sometimes it seemeth even to change the nature of some part of our body into which it is chiefly entered, and hath taken particular possession of; so that whensoever new atoms of the like nature, do again range about in the circumstant air, that part so deeply affected with the former ones of kin to these, doth in a particular manner seem to rissent them, and to attract them to it, and to have its guests within it (as it were) wakened and roused up by the strokes of the advenient ones that knock at their doors. Even so (but much more strongly, by reason of the longer time and less hindrances) we may conceive that the two virtues or atoms proceeding from the two different hemispheres, do constitute a certain permanent and constant nature in the stone that imbideth them: which then, we call a loadstone; and is exceeding sensible (as we shall hereafter declare) of the advenience to it of new atoms, alike in nature and complexion to those that it is impregnated with.  
And this virtue, consisting in a kind of softer and tenderer substance than the rest of the stone, becometh thereby subject to be consumed by fire. From whence we may gather the reason why a loadstone never recovereth its magnetike virtue, after it hath once lost it; though iron doth: for the humidity of iron, is inseparable from its substance; but the humidity of a loadstone which maketh it capable of this effect, may be quite consumed by fire; and so the stone be left too dry, for ever being capable of imbibing any new influence from the earth, unless it be by a kind of new making it.  

8 Experiments to prove that the loadstone worketh by emanations meeting with agreeing streams.  In the next place we are to prove that the loadstone doth work in that manner as we have showed, for which end let us consider how the atoms, that are drawn from each Pole and hemisphere of the earth to the aequator, making up their course by a manuduction of one an other, the hindermost can not choose but still follow on after the foremost. And as it happeneth in filtration by a cotton cloth; if some one part of the cotton, have its disposition to the ascent of the water, more perfect and ready than the other parts have; the water will assuredly ascend faster in that part, then in any of the rest: so, if the atoms do find a greater disposition for their passage, in any one part of the medium they range through, then in an other, they will certainly, not fail of taking that way, in greater abundance, and with more vigour and strength, than any other.  
But it is evident, that when they meet with such a stone as we have described, the helps by which they advance in their journey, are notably increased by the flood of atoms which they meet coming out of that stone; which being of the nature of their opposite pole, they seize greedily upon them, and thereby do pluck themselves faster on: like a ferryman that draweth on his boat the swiftlyer, the more vigorously he tuggeth and pulleth at the rope that lieth thwart the river for him to hale himself over by. And therefore we can not doubt but that this flood of atoms streaming from the pole of the earth, must needs pass through that stone with more speed and vigour than they can do any other way.  
And as we see in the running of water; that if it meeteth with any lower crannies than the wide channel it streameth in; it will turn out of its strait way, to glide along there where it findeth an easier and more declive bed to tumble in: so these atoms will infallibly deturne themselves from their direct course, to pass through such a stone as far as their greater conveniency leadeth them.  
And what we have said of these atoms which from the Poles do range through the vast sea of air to the aequator; is likewise to be applied unto those atoms which issue out of the stone: so that we may conclude, that if they meet with any help which may convey them on with more speed and vigour, then whiles they stream directly forwardly; they will likewise deturne themselves from directly forwardly, to take that course. And if the stone itself be hanged so nicely, that a less force is able to turn it about then is requisite to turn aw●y out of its course the continued stream of atoms which issueth from the stone: in this case, the stone itself must needs turn towards that stream which climbing and filtering itself along the stones stream, draweth it out of its course; in such sort as the nose of a weathercock butteth itself into the wind. Now then; it being known, that the strongest stream cometh directly, from the north in the great earth, and that the souththerne stream of the Terrella or loadstone proportioned duly by nature to incorporate with the north stream of the earth, issueth out of the north end of the stone; it followeth plainly that when a loadstone is situated at liberty, its north end must necessarily turn towards the north pole of the world.  
And it will likewise follow, that whensoever such a stone meeteth with an other of the same nature and kind; they must comport themselves to one an other in like sort: that is, if both of them be free and equal, they must turn themselves to, or from, one an other▪ according as they are situated in respect of one an other. So that if their axes be parallel, and the south pole of the one, and the north of the other do look the same way; then they will send proportionate, and agreeing streams to one an other from their whole bodies, that will readily mingle and incorporate with one an other, without turning out of their way or seeking any shorter course or changing their respects to one another.  
But if the poles of the same denomination do look the same way, and the loadstone do not lie in such sort as to have their axe's parallel, but that they incline to one an other: then they will work themselves about, until they grow by their opposite poles into a strait line; for the same reason as we have showed of a loadstone turning to the pole of the earth.  
But if only one of the loadestones be free and the other be fixed, and that they lie inclined, as in the former case; then, the free stone will work himself until his pole be opposite to that part of the fixed stone from whence the stream which agreeth with him, issueth strongest: for that stream is to the free loadstone, as the northern stream of the earth, is to a loadstone compared unto the earth. But withal, we must take notice that in this our discourse, we abstract from other accidents; and particularly from the influence of the earth's streams into the loadestones: which will cause great variety in these cases, if they lie not due north and south, when they begin to work.  
And as loadestones and other magnetike bodies, do thus of necessity turn to one an other when they are both free; and if one of them be fastened, the other turneth to it; so likewise, if they be free to progressive motion, they must by a like necessity and for the same reason, come together and join themselves to one an other. And if only one of them be free, that must remove itself to the other: for, the same virtue that maketh them turn, (which is, the strength of the steam) will likewise (in due circumstances) make them come together; by reason that the steames which climb up one an other by the way of filtration, and do thereby turn the bodies of the stones upon their centres when they are only free to turn, must likewise, draw the whole bodies of the stones entirely out of their places, and make them join, when such a total motion of the body is an effect that requireth no more force, than the force of conveying vigorously the streams of both the Magnetike bodies into one an other; that is, when there is no such impediment standing in the way of the Magnetike body's motion, but that the celerity of the atoms motion, mingling with one an other, is able to overcome it: for then, it must needs do so; and the magnetike body by natural coherence unto the steam of atoms in which it is involved, followeth the course of the steam: in such sort as in the example we have heretofore upon an other occasion given of an eggshell filled with dew; the sunnebeames converting the dew into smoke, and raising up that smoke or steam, the eggshell is likewise raised up for company with the steam that issueth from it.  
And for the same reason it is, that the loadstone draweth iron: for iron being of a nature apt to receive and harbour the steames of a loadstone; it becometh a weak loadstone; and worketh towards a loadstone, in such sort as a weaker loadstone would do: and so moveth, towards a loadstone by the means we have now described. And that this conformity between iron and the loadstone, is the true reason of the loadestones drawing of iron, is clear out of this; that a loadstone will take up a greater weight of pure iron, than it will of impure or drossy iron; or of iron and some other mettle joined together: and that it will draw further through a slender long iron, then in the free open air: all which, are manifest signs, that iron cooperateth with the force, which the loadstone grafteth in it. And the reason why iron cometh to a loadstone more efficaciously than an other loadstone doth, is, because loadestones generally are more impure than iron is (as being a kind of oore or mine of iron) and have other extraneous and heterogeneal natures mixed with them: whereas iron receiveth the loadestones operation in its whole substance.   

THE ONE AND TWENTIETH CHAPTER. Positions drawn out of the former doctrine, and confirmed by experimental proofs.  
THe first position is, 
1 The operations of the loadstone are wrought by bodies and not by qualities.  that the working of the loadstone, being throughout according to the tenor of the operation of bodies, may be done by bodies, and consequently is not done by occult or secret qualities. Which is evident out of this, that a greater loadstone hath more effect than a lesser: and that if you cut away part of a loadstone, part of his virtue is likewise taken from him: and if the parts be joined again, the whole becometh as strong as it was before.  
Again; if a loadstone touch a longer iron, it giveth it less force than if it touch a shorter iron: nay, the virtue in any part, is sensibly lesser, according as it is further from the touched part. Again; the longer an iron is in touching, the greater virtue it getteth, and the more constant. And both an iron and a loadstone may lose their virtue, by long lying out of their due order and situation, either to the earth or to an other loadstone.  
Besides, if a loadstone do touch a long iron in the middle of it, he diffuseth his virtue equally towards both ends; and if it be a round plate, he diffuseth his virtue equally to all sides.  
And lastly, the virtue of a loadstone, as also of an iron touched, is lost by burning it in the fire. All which symptoms agreeing exactly with the rules of bodies, do make it undeniable that the virtue of the loadstone is a real and solid body.  

2 Objections against the former position answered.  Against this position, Cabeus objecteth that little atoms would not be able to penetrate all sorts of bodies; as we see the virtue of the loadstone doth. And urgeth, that although they should be allowed to do so, yet they could not be imagined to penetrate thick and solid bodies so suddenly, as they would do thin ones; and would certainly show then some sign of facility or difficulty of passing, in the interposition and in the taking away of bodies put between the loadstone and the body it worketh upon. Secondly he objecteth that atoms being little bodies, they can not move in an instant; as the working of the loadstone seemeth to do. And lastly; that the loadstone, by such abundance of continual evaporations, would quickly be consumed.  
To the first, we answer; that atoms whose nature it is to pierce iron, can not reasonably be suspected of inability to penetrate any other body: and that atoms can penetrate iron, is evident in the melting of it by fire. And indeed this objection cometh now too late, after we have so largely declared the divisibility of quantity, and the subtlety of nature in reducing all things into extreme small parts: for this difficulty hath no other avow, than the tardity of our imaginations in subtilising sufficiently the quantitative parts that issue out of the loadstone.  
As for any tardity that may be expected by the interposition of a thick or dense body; there is no appearance of such, since we see light pass through thick glasses without giving any sign of meeting with the least opposition in its passage, (as we have above declared at large:) and magnetical emanations have the advantage of light in this, that they are not obliged to strait lines, as light is.  
Lastly, as for loadestones spending of themselves by still venting their emanations; odoriferous bodies furnish us with a full answer to that objection: for they do continue many years palpably spending of themselves, and yet keep their odour in vigour; whereas a loadstone, if it be laid in a wrong position will not continue half so long. The reason of the duration of both which, maketh the matter manifest and taketh away all difficulty: which is, that as in a root of a vegetable, there is a power to change the advenient juice into its nature; so is there in such like things as these, a power to change the ambient air into their own substance: as evident experience showeth in the Hermetike salt, (as some modern writers call it) which is found to be rapayred, and increased in its weight, by lying in the air; and the like happeneth to saltpetre. And in our present subject, experience informeth us, that a loadstone will grow stronger by lying in due position either to the earth, or to a stronger loadstone, whereby it may be better impregnated, and as it were feed itself with the emanations issuing out of them into it.  

3 The loadstone is imbued with his virtue from an other body.  Our next position is, that this virtue cometh to a magnetike body, from an other body; as the nature of bodies is, to require a being moved, that they may move. And this is evident in iron; which by the touch, or by standing in due position near the loadstone gaineth the power of the loadstone. Again, if a smith in beating his iron into a rod, do observe to lay it north and south; it getteth a direction to the north, by the very beating of it. Likewise if an iron rod be made red hot in the fire, and be kept there a good while together, and when it is taken out, be laid to cool just north and south; it will acquire the same direction towards the north. And this is true, not only of iron, but also of all other sorts of bodies whatsoever that endure such ignition: particularly, of pottearthes', which if they be moulded in a long form, and when they are taken out of the kilne be laid (as we said of the iron) to cool north and south, will have the same effect wrought in them. And iron, though it hath not been heated; but only hath continued long unmoved in the same situation of north and south, in a building; yet it will have the same effect. So as it can not be denied, but that this virtue cometh unto iron from other bodies: whereof one must be a secret influence from the north. And this is confirmed, by a loadestones losing its virtue (as we said before) by lying a long time unduly disposed, either towards the earth, or towards a stronger loadstone; whereby instead of the former, it gaineth a new virtue according to that situation.  
And this happeneth, not only in the virtue which is resident and permanent in a loadstone or a touched iron; but likewise, in the actual motion or operation of them. As may be experienced; first, in this, that the same loadstone or touched iron in the south hemisphere of the world hath its operation strongest at that end of it which tendeth to the north; and in the north hemisphere, at the end which tendeth to the south: each pole communicating a vigour proportionable to its own strength in the climate where it is received. Secondly, in this, that an iron joined to a loadstone, or within the sphere of the loadestones working, will take up an other piece of iron greater than the loadstone of itself can hold; and as soon as the holding iron is removed out of the sphere of the loadestones activity, it presently letteth fall the iron it formerly held up: and this is so true; that a lesser loadstone may be placed in such sort within the sphere of a greater loadestones operation, as to take away a piece of iron from the greater loadstone; and this, in virtue of the same greater loadstone from which it plucketh it: for, but remove the lesser out of the sphere of the greater; and than it can no longer do it. So that it is evident, that in these cases, the very actual operation of the lesser loadstone or of the iron; proceedeth from the actual influence of the greater loadstone upon and into them. And hence we may understand, that whensoever a Magnetike body doth work, it hath an excitation from without, which doth make it issue out and send its streams abroad; in such sort as it is the nature of all bodies to do; and as we have given examples of the like done by heat, when we discoursed of Rarefaction.  
But to explicate this point more clearly by entering more particularly into it; if a magnetike body lieth north and south, it is easy and obvious to conceive that the streams coming from north and south of the world, and passing through the stone must needs excitate the virtue which is in it, and carry a stream of it along with them that way, they go. But if it lieth East and West, than the steames of north and south of the earth, streaming along by the two Poles of the stone, are sucked in by them much more weakly: yet nevertheless sufficiently to give an excitation to the innate steames which are in the body of the stone, to make them move on in their ordinary course.  

4 The virtue of the loadstone is a double, and not one simple virtue.  The third position is, that the virtue of the loadstone is a double and not one simple virtue. Which is manifest in an iron touched by a loadstone, for if you touch it only with one pole of the stone, it will not be so strong and full of the magnetike virtue, as if you touch one end of it with one pole, and the other end of it with the other pole of the stone. Again; if you touch both ends of an iron, with the same pole of the stone, the iron gaineth its virtue at that end which was last touched; and changeth its virtue from end to end, as often as it is rubbed at contrary ends. Again; one end of the loadstone or of iron touched, will have more force on the one side of the aequator, and the other end on the other side of it. Again; the variation on the one side of the aequator, and the variation on the other side of it, have different laws according to the different ends of the loadstone, or of the needle, which looketh to those Poles.  
Wherefore, it is evident, that there is a double virtue in the loadstone, the one more powerful at the one end of it; the other more powerful at the other end. Yet these two virtues are found in every sensible part of the stone: for cutting it at either end, the virtue at the contrary end is also diminished. And the whole loadstone that is left, hath both the same virtues, in proportion to its bigness. Besides cut the loadstone how you will, still the two poles remain in that line, which lay under the meridian when it was in the earth. And the like is of the touched iron whose virtue still lieth along the line, 
5 The vettue of the loadstone worketh more strongly in the poles of it, then in any other part.  which goeth strait (according to the line of the axis) from the point where it was touched, and at the opposite end, constituteth the contrary pole.  
The fourth position is, that though the virtue of the loadstone be in the whole body; nevertheless, its virtue is more seen in the poles then in any other parts. For by experience it is found that a loadstone of equal bulk, worketh better and more efficaciously if it be in a long form; then if it be in any other. 
6 
The loadstone sendeth forth its emanations spherically.  
Which are of two kinds: and each kind is strongest in that hemisphere, through whose polary parts they issue out.   And from the middle line betwixt the two poles, there cometh no virtue, if an iron be touched there: but any part towards the pole; the nearer it is to the pole, the greater virtue it imparteth. Last; the declination teacheth us the same; which is so much the stronger by how much it is nearer the pole.  
The fifth position is, that in the loadstone there are emanations which do issue not only at the poles and about them, but also spherically, round about the whole body, and in an orb from all parts of the superficies of it; in such sort as happeneth in all other bodies whatsoever. And that these spherical emanations, are of two kinds; proportionable to the two polar emanations. And that the greatest force of each sort of them is in that hemisphere where the pole is, att which they make their chief issue.  
The reason of the first part of this position is, because no particular body can be exempt from the laws of all bodies: and we have above declared that every physical body must of necessity have an orb of fluours, or a sphere of activity about it. The reason of the second part is, that seeing these fluours do proceed out of the very substance and nature of the loadstone, they can not choose but be found of both sorts, in every part how little soever it be, where the nature of the loadstone resideth. The reason of the third part is, that because the polar emanations do tend wholly towards the poles (each of them to their proper pole) it followeth that in every hemisphere both those which come from the contrary hemisphere, and those which are bred in the hemisphere they go out att, are all assembled in that hemisphere: and therefore, of necessity it must be stronger in that kind of fluours, than the opposite end is. All which appeareth true in experience: for if a long iron toucheth any part of that hemisphere of a loadstone which tendeth to the north; it gaineth at that end a virtue of tending likewise to the north: and the same will be if an iron but hang close over it. And this may be confirmed by a like experience, of an iron bar in respect of the earth which hanging downwards in any part of our hemisphere, is imbued with the like inclination of drawing towards the north. 
7 Putting two loadestones within the sphere of one an other, every part of one loadstone, doth not agree with every part of the other loadstone.   
The sixth position is, that although every part of one loadstone do in itself agree with every part of an other loadstone (that is, if each of these parts were divided from their wholes, and each of them made a whole by itself, they might be so joined together as they would agree) nevertheless, when the parts are in their two wholes, they do not all of them agree together: but of two loadestones, only the poles of the one do agree with the whole body of the other; that is, each pole with any part of the contrary hemisphere of the other loadstone.  
The reason of this is, because the fluours which issue out of the stones, are in certain different degrees in several parts of the entire loadestones; whereby it happeneth that one loadstone can work by a determinate part of itself most powerfully upon the other, if some determinate part of that other do lie next unto it; and not so well, if any other part lieth towards it. And accordingly experience showeth that if you put the pole of a loadstone towards the middle of a needle that is touched at the point, the middle part of the neddle will turn away, 
8 Concerning the declination and other respects of a needle, towards the loadstone is toucheth.  and the end of it will convert itself to the pole of the loadstone.  
The seventh position is, that if a touched needle and a loadstone do come together, and touch one an other in their agreeing parts (whatsoever parts of them those be) the line of the needle's length will bend towards the pole of the stone (excepting, if they touch by the aequator of the stone, and the middle of the needle:) yet not so that if you draw out the line of the needle's length, it will go through the pole of the stone; unless they touch by the end of the one, and the pole of the other. But if they touch by the aequator of the one and the middle of the other; then the needle will lie parallel to the axis of the stone.  
And the reason of this is manifest, for in that case the two poles being equidistant to the needle they draw it equally; and by consequence the needle must remain parallel to the axis of the stone. Nor doth it import that the inequality of the two poles of the stone is materially or quantitatively greater than the inequality of the two poles of the needle; out of which it may at the first sight seem to follow, that the stronger pole of the stone should draw the weaker pole of the needle nearer unto itself; then the weaker pole of the stone can be able to draw the stronger pole of the needle: and by consequence that the needle should not lie parallel to the axis of the stone, but should incline somewhat to the stronger pole of it. For after you have well considered the matter, you will find that the strength of the pole of the stone, can not work according to its material greatness, but is confined to work only according to the susceptibility of the needle: the which, being a slender and thin body, can not receive so much as a thicker body may. Wherefore, seeing that the strongest pole of the stone giveth most strength to that pole of the needle, which lieth furthest from it; it may well happen that this superiority of strength in the pole of the needle that is applied to the weaker pole of the stone, may counterpoise the excess of the stronger pole of the stone, over its opposite weaker pole; though not in greatness and quantity, yet in respect of the virtue which is communicable to the poles of the needle; whereby its comportment to the poles of the stone, is determined. And indeed the needles lying parallel to the axis of the stone when the middle of it sticketh to the aequator of the stone, convinceth that upon the whole matter, there is no excess in the efficacious working of either of the stones poles: but that their excess over one an other in regard of themselves, is balanced by the needles receiving it.  
But if the needle happeneth to touch the loadstone in some part nearer one pole then the other; in this case it is manifest that the force of the stone is greater on the one side of the needle's touch, then on the other side; because there is a greater quantity of the stone on the one side of the needle then on the other: and by consequence the needle will incline that way which the greater force draweth it; so far forth as the other part doth not hinder it. Now we know that if the greater part were divided from the rest, and so were an entire loadstone by itself (that is, if the loadstone were cut of where the needle toucheth it) than the needle would join itself to the pole, that is to the end, of that part: and by consequence, would be tending to it, in such sort as a thing that is sucked tendeth towards the sucker against the motion or force which cometh from the lesser part: and on the other side the lesser part of the stone which is on the other side of the point which the needle toucheth, must hinder this inclination of the needle according to the proportion of its strength; and so it followeth that the needle will hang by its end, not directly set to the end of the greater part, but as much inclining towards it as the lesser part doth not hinder by striving to pull it the other way. Out of which we gather the true cause of the needle's declination, to wit the proportion of working of the two unequal parts of the stone, between which it toucheth and is joined to the stone.  
And we likewise discover their error who judge that the part which draweth iron is the next pole unto the iron. 
9 The virtue of the loadstone goeth from end to end in lines almost parallel to the axis.  For it is rather the contrary pole which attracteth; or to speak more properly it is the whole body of the stone as streaming in lines almost parallel to the axis, from the furthermost end, to the other end which is next to the iron: and (in our case) it is that part of the stone which beginneth from the contrary pole and reacheth to the needle. For besides the light which this discourse gave us, experience assureth us that a loadstone, whose poles lie broad ways, not long ways the stone, is more imperfect, and draweth more weakly than if the poles lay longwayes; which would not be if the fluours did stream from all parts of the stone directly to the pole: for then, howsoever the stone were cast the whole virtue of it would be in the poles. Moreover, if a needle were drawn freely, upon the same meridian from one pole to the other; as soon as it were passed the aequator it would leap suddenly at the very first remove off of the aequator, where it is parallel with the axis of the loadstone, from being so parallel, to make an angle with the axis greater than a half right one, to the end that it might look upon the pole which is supposed to be the only attractive that draweth the needle: which great change, wrought all att once, nature never causeth nor admitteth, but in all actions or motions, useth to pass through all the mediums whensoever it goeth from one extreme to an other. Besides; there would be no variation of the needle's aspect towards the north end of the stone: for if every part did send its virtue immediately to the poles, it were impossible that any other part whatsoever should be stronger than the polar part, seeing that the polar part, had the virtue even of that particular part, and of all the other parts of the stone besides, joined in itself.  
This therefore is evident; that the virtue of the loadstone goeth from end to end in parallel lines; unless it be in such stones as have their polar parts narrower than the rest of the body of the stone: for in them, the stream will tend with some little declination towards the pole, as it were by way of refraction; because without the stone, the fluours from the pole of the earth do coarct themselves, and so do thicken their stream, to crowd into the stone as soon as they are sensible of any emanations from it, that being (as we have said before) their readyest way to pass along: and within the stone, the stream doth the like to meet the advenient stream where it is strongest and thickest; which is, att that narrow part of the stones end, which is most prominent out.  

10 The virtue of the loadstone is not perfectly spherical though the stone be such.  And by this discourse we discover likewise an other error of them, that imagine the loadstone hath a sphere of activity round about it, equal on all sides; that is, perfectly spherical, if the stone be spherical. Which clearly is a mistaken speculation: for nature having so ordered all her agents that where the strength is greatest, there the action must (generally speaking) extend itself furthest off; and it being acknowledged that the loadstone hath greatest strength in its poles and least in the aequator; it must of necessity follow, that it worketh further by its poles then by its aequator. And consequently, it is impossible that its sphere of activity should be perfectly spherical.  
Nor doth Cabeus his experience move us to conceive the loadstone hath a greater strength to retain an iron laid upon it by its aequator, then by its poles: for to justify his assertion, he should have tried it in an iron wire that were so short, as the poles could not have any notable operation upon the ends of it; since otherwise, the force of retaining it, will be attributed to the poles (according to what we have above delivered) and not to the aequator.  

11 The intention of nature in all the operations of the loadstone, is to make an union betwixt the attractive and attracted bodies.  The eighth position is; that the intention of nature in all the operations of the loadstone, is to make an union betwixt the attractive and the attracted bodies. Which is evident out of the sticking of them together: as also out of the violence wherewith iron cometh to a loadstone; which when it is drawn by a powerful one, is so great, that through the force of the blow hitting the stone, it will rebound back again, and then fall again to the stone: and in like manner a needle upon a pin, if a loadstone be set near it, turneth with so great a force towards the pole of the stone, that it goeth beyond it, and coming back again, the celerity wherewith it moveth maketh it retire itself too far on the other side; and so by many undulations, at the last it cometh to rest directly opposite to the pole. Likewise, by the declination; by means of which, the iron to the stone, or the stone to the earth, approacheth in such a disposition as is most convenient to join the due ends together. And lastly, out of the flying away of the contrary ends from one an other: which clearly is to no other purpose, but that the due ends may come together. And in general; there is no doubt but ones going to an other, is instituted by the order of nature for their coming together, and for their being together, which is but a perseverance of their coming together.  

12 The main globe of the earth is not a loadstone.  The nineth position is, that the nature of a loadstone doth not sink deeply into the main body of the earth, as to have the substance of its whole body, be magnetical; but only remaineth near the surface of it. And this is evident by the inequality in virtue of the two ends; for if this magnetike virtue were the nature of the whole body, both ends would be equally strong. Nor would the disposition of one of the ends, be different from the disposition of the other. Again, there could be no variation of the tending towards the north: for the bulk of the whole body would have a strength so eminently greater, than the prominences and disparities of hills or seas; as the varieties of these would be absolutely insensible. Again; if the motion of the loadstone came from the body of the earth, it would be perpetually from the centre, and not from the poles; and so, there could be no declination, more in one part of the earth, then in an other. Nor would the loadstone tend from north to south, but from the centre to the circumference; or rather from the circumference to the centre.  
And so we may learn the difference between the loadstone and the earth in their attractive operations; to wit, that the earth doth not receive its influence from an other body, nor doth its magnetike virtue depend of an other magnetike agent, that impresseth it into it: which nevertheless, is the most remarkable condition of a loadstone. Again the strongest virtue of the loadstone, is from pole to pole: but the strongest virtue of the earth, is from the centre upwardly, as appeareth by fireforkes gaining a much greater magnetike strength in a short time, than a loadstone in a longer. Neither can it be thence objected, that the loadstone should therefore receive the earth's influences more strongly from the centerwardes, then from the poles of the earth, (which by its operation, and what we have discoursed of it, is certain it doth not;) since the beds where loadestones lie and are form be towards the bottom of that part or bark of the earth which is imbued with magnetike virtue. Again, this virtue which we see in a loadstone, is substantial to it; whereas the like virtue is but accidental to the earth, by means of the sun's drawing the northern and souththerne exhalations to the aequator.  
The last position is, 
13 The loadstone is generated in all parts or climates of the earth.  that the loadstone must be found over all the earth, and in every country. And so we see it is: both because iron mines are found (in some measure) almost in all countries: and because, at the least other sorts of earth (as we have declared of pottearths) can not be wanting in any large extent of country; which when they are baked and cooled in due positions, have this effect of the loadstone, and are of the nature of it. And Docteur Gilbert showeth, that the loadstone is nothing else but the oore of steel or of perfectest iron; and that it is to be found of all colours, and fashions, and almost of all consistences.  
So that we may easily conceive, 
14 The conformity betwixt the two motions of magnetike things, and of heavy things.  that the emanations of the loadstone being every where, as well as the causes of gravity; the two motions of magnetike things and of weighty things, do both of them derive their origine from the same source; I mean, from the very same emanations coming from the earth; which by a divers ordination of nature, do make this effect in the loadstone, and that other in weighty things. And who knoweth but that a like sucking to this which we have showed in magnetike things, passeth also in the motion of gravity? In a wood; gravity beareth a fair testimony in the behalf of the magnetike force; and the loadestones working, returneth no mean verdict for the causes of gravity, according to what we have delivered of them.   

THE TWO AND TWENTIETH CHAPTER. A solution of certain Problems concerning the loadstone, and as hort sum of the whole doctrine touching it.  
Out of what is said upon this subject, we may proceed to the solution of certain questions or problems, 
1 Which is the North, and which the South Pole of a loadstone.  which are or may be made in this matter. And first, of that which Doctor Gilbert disputeth against all former writers of the loadstone; to wit which is the North, and which the South pole of a stone? Which seemeth unto me, to be only a question of the name: for if by the name of north and south, we understand that end of the stone which hath that virtue that the north or south pole of the earth have▪ then it is certain, that the end of the stone which looketh to the south pole of the earth, is to be called the north pole of the loadstone; and conrrariwise, that which looketh to the north, is to be called the south pole of it. But if by the names of north and south pole of the stone, you mean those ends of it, that lie and point to the north and to the south poles of the earth; than you must reckon their poles chose to the former account. So that the terms being once defined, there will remain no further controversy about this point.  
Doctor Gilbert seemeth also to have an other controversy with all writers; to wit whether any bodies besides magnetical ones, be attractive? 
2 Whether any bodies besides magnetike ones be attractive.  Which he seemeth to deny; all others to affirm. But this also being fairly put, will peradventure prove no controversy: for the question is either in common, of attraction; or else in particular, of such an attraction as is made by the loadstone. Of the first part, there can be no doubt; as we have declared above; and as is manifest betwixt gold and quicksilver, when a man holding gold in his mouth, it draweth unto it the quicksilver that is in his body. But for the attractive to draw a body unto itself, not wholly, but one determinate part of the body drawn, unto one determine part of the drawer; is an attraction which for my part I can not exemplify in any other bodies but magnetical ones.  
A third question is, 
3 Whether an iron placed perpendicularly towards the earth doth get a magnetical virtue of pointing towards the north, or towards the south in that end that lieth downwards.  whether an iron that standeth long time unmoved in a window, or any other part of a building, perpendicularly to the earth, doth contract a magnetical virtue of drawing or pointing towards the north in that end which looketh downwards. For Cabeus (who wrote since Gilbert) affirmeth it out of experience: but either his experiment or his expression was defective. For assuredly if the iron standeth so, in the northern hemisphere, it will turn to the north; and if in the southern hemisphere; it will turn to the south: for seeing the virtue of the loadstone proceedeth from the earth, and that the earth hath different tempers towards the north, and towards the south pole (as hath been already declared) the virtue which cometh out of the earth in the northern hemisphere, will give unto the end of the iron next it an inclination to the north pole; and the earth of the southern hemisphere will yield the contrary disposition unto the end which is nearest it.  
The next question is, why a loadstone seemeth to love iron better than it doth an other loadstone? 
4 Why loadestones affect iron better than one an other.  The answer is, because iron is indifferent in all its parts to receive the impression of a loadstone; whereas an other loadstone receiveth it only in a determinate part: and therefore a loadstone draweth iron more easily than it can an other loadstone; because it findeth repugnance in the parts of an other loadstone, unless it be exactly situated in a right position. Besides, iron seemeth to be compared to a loadstone, like as a more humid body to a dryer of the same nature; and the difference of male and female sexes in animals do manifestly show the great appetence of conjunction between moisture and dryness, when they belong to bodies of the same species.  
An other question, 
5 Gilberts reason refuted touching a capped loadstone, that taketh up more iron than one not capped; and an iron impregnated that in some case draweth more strongly than the stone itself.  is that great one; why a loadstone capped with steel, taketh up more iron than it would do if it were without that capping? An other conclusion like unto this, is that if by a loadstone you take up an iron, and by that iron a second iron, and then you pull away the second iron; the first iron (in some position) will leave the loadstone to stick unto the second iron, as long as the second iron is within the sphere of the loadestones activity; but if you remove the second out of that sphere, than the first iron remaining within it, though the other be out of it, will leave the second, and leap back to the loadstone. To the same purpose, is this other conclusion; that the greater the iron is, which is entirely within the compass of the loadestones virtue, the more strongly the loadstone will be moved unto it; and the more forcibly it will stick to it.  
The reasons of all these three, we must give att once; for they hang all upon one string. And in my conceit neither Gilbert nor Galileo have hit upon the right. As for Gilbert; he thinketh that in iron there is originally the virtue of the loadstone; but that it is as it were a sleep until by the touch of the loadstone it be awaked and set on work: and therefore the virtue of both joined together, is greater than the virtue of the loadstone alone.  
But if this were the reason, the virtue of the iron would be greater in every regard, and not only in sticking or in taking up: whereas himself confesseth, that a capped stone draweth no further, than a naked stone, nor hardly so far. Besides, it would continue its virtue out of the sphere of activity of the loadstone, which it doth not. Again; seeing that if you compare them severally, the virtue of the loadstone is greater, than the virtue of the iron; why should not the middle iron stick closer to the stone then to the further iron which must of necessity have less virtue?  

6 Galileus his opinion touching the former effects, refuted.  Galileo yieldeth the cause of this effect, that when an iron toucheth an iron, there are more parts which touch one an other, then when a loadstone toucheth the iron: both because the loadstone, hath generally much impurity in it, and therefore divers parts of it have no virtue; whereas iron, by being melted hath all its parts pure: and secondly, because iron can be smoothed and polisked more than a loadstone can be: and therefore its superficies toucheth in a manner with all its parts; whereas divers parts of the stones superficies can not touch, by reason of its ruggedness.  
And he confirmeth his opinion by experience: for if you put the head of a needle to a barestone, and the point of it to an iron; and then pluck away the iron; the needle will leave the iron, and stick to the stone: but if you turn the needle the other way, it will leave the stone and stick to the iron. Out of which he inferreth that it is the multitude of parts, which causeth the close and strong sticking. And it seemeth he found the same in the capping of his loadestones: for he used flat irons for that purpose; which by their whole plane did take up other irons: whereas Gilbert capped his with convexe irons; which not applying themselves to other iron, so strongly or with so many parts as Galileo's did, would not by much take up so great weightes as his.  
Nevertheless, it seemeth not to me that his answer is sufficient, or that his reasons convince; for we are to consider that the virtue which he putteth in the iron must (according to his own supposition) proceed from the loadstone: and then, what importeth it, whether the superficies of the iron which toucheth an other iron, be so exactly plain or no? Or that the parts of it be more solid than the parts of the stone? For all this conduceth nothing to make the virtue greater than it was: since no more virtue can go from one iron to the other, then goeth from the loadstone to the first iron: and if this virtue can not tie the first iron to the loadstone; it can not proceed out of this virtue that the second iron be tied to the first. Again; if a paper be put betwixt the cap and an other iron, it doth not hinder the magnetical virtue from passing through it to the iron; but the virtue of taking up more weight than the naked stone was able to do, is thereby rendered quite useless. Therefore it is evident, that this virtue must be put in something else, and not in the application of the magnetical virtue.  
And to examine his reasons particularly, it may very well fall out that whatsoever the cause be, the point of a needle may be too little to make an exact experience in; and therefore a new doctrine ought not lightly be grounded upon what appeareth in the application of that. And likewise, the greatness of the surfaces of the two irons, may be a condition helpful to the cause whatsoever it be: for greater and lesser, are the common conditions of all bodies, and therefore do avail all kinds of corporeal causes; so that, no one cause can be affirmed more than an other, merely out of this that great doth more, and little doth less.  
To come then to our own solution: 
7 The Author's solution to the former questions.  I have considered, how fi●● hath in a manner the same effect in iron, as the virtue of the loadstone hath by means of the cap: for I find that fire coming through iron red glowing hot, will burn more strongly, then if it should come immediately through the air; as also we see that in pittecoale the fire is stronger than in charcoal. And nevertheless, the fire will heat further if it come immediately from the source of it, then if it come through a red iron that burneth more violently where it toucheth; and likewise charcoal will heat further than pittcoale, that near hand burneth more fiercely. In the same manner, the loadstone will draw further without a cap then with one; but with a cap it sticketh faster than without one. Whence I see that it is not purely the virtue of the loadstone; but the virtue of it being in iron; which causeth this effect.  
Now this modification, may proceed either from the multitude of parts which come out of the loadstone, and are as it were stopped in the iron; and so the sphere of their activity becometh shorter but stronger: or else from some quality of the iron joined to the influence of the loadstone. The first seemeth not to give a good account of the effect; for why should a little paper take it away, seeing we are sure that it stoppeth not the passage of the loadestones influence? Again; the influence of the loadstone, seemeth in its motion to be of the nature of light, which goeth in an insensible time as far as it can reach: and therefore, were it multiplied in the iron, it would reach further than without it; and from it, the virtue of the loadstone would begin a new sphere of activity. Therefore, we more willingly cleave to the latter part of our determination.  
And there upon enquiring what quality there is in iron, whence this effect may follow; we find that it is distinguished from a loadstone, as a mettle is from a stone. Now we know that metals have generally more humidity than stones; and we have discoursed above, that humidity is the cause of sticking▪ especially when it is little and dense. These qualities must needs be in the humidity of iron: which of all metals is the most terrestrial: and such humidity as is able to stick to the influence of the loadstone, as it passeth through, the body of the iron, must be exceeding subtle and small; and it seemeth necessary that such humidity should stick to the influence of the loadstone, when it meeteth with it, considering that the influence is of itself dry and that the nature of iron is akin to the loadstone: wherefore, the humidity of the one, and the drought of the other, will not fail of incorporating together. Now then, if two irons, well polished and plain, be united by such a glue as resulteth out of this composition, there is a manifest appearance of much reason for them to stick strongly together. This is confirmed by the nature of iron in very cold countries and very cold weather: for the very humidity of the air in times of frost, will make upon iron, sooner than upon other things, such a sticking glue as will pull off the skin of a man's hand that toucheth it hard.  
And by this discourse, you will perceive that Galileo's arguments do confirm our opinion as well as his own; and that according to our doctrine, all circumstances must fall out just as they do in his experiences. And the reason is clear why the interposition of an other body, hindereth the strong sticking of iron to the cap of the loadstone; for it maketh the mediation between them greater, which we have showed to be the general reason why things are easily parted.  
Let us then proceed to the resolution of the other cases proposed. The second is already resolved: for if this glue be made of the influence of the loadstone, it can not have force further than the loadstone itself hath: and so far, it must have more force, than the bare influence of the loadstone. Or rather the humidity of two irons maketh the glue of a fitter temper to hold, then that which is between a dry loadstone and iron; and the glue entereth better when both sides are moist, then when only one is so.  

8 The reason why in the former case, a lesser loadstone doth draw the interjacent iron from the greater.  But this resolution though it be in part good, yet it doth not evacuate the whole difficulty, since the same case happeneth between a stronger and a weaker loadstone, as between a loadstone and iron: for the weaker loadstone, whilst it is, within the sphere of activity of the greater loadstone, draweth away an iron set betwixt them as well as a second iron doth. For the reason therefore of the little loadestones drawing away the iron, we may consider that the greater loadstone hath two effects upon the iron, which is betwixt it and a lesser loadstone, and a third effect upon the little loadstone itself. The first is that it impregnateth the iron, and giveth it a permanent virtue by which it worketh like a weak loadstone. The second is, that as it maketh the iron work towards the lesser loadstone by its permanent virtue; so also it accompanieth the steam that goeth from the iron towards the little loadstone with its own steam, which goeth the same way: so that both these steames do in company climb up the steam of the little loadstone which meeteth them; and that steam climbeth up the enlarged one of both theirs together. The third effect which the greater loadstone worketh, is that it maketh the steam of the little loadstone become stronger by augmenting its innate virtue in some degree.  
Now then, the going of the iron to either of the loadestones, must follow the greater and quicker conjunction of the two meeting steames, and not the greatness of one alone. So that if the conjunction of the two steames between the iron and the little loadstone be greater and quicker than the conjunction of the two steames which meet between the greater loadstone and the iron, the iron must stick to the lesser loadstone. And this must happen more often then otherwise: for the steam which goeth from the iron to the greater loadstone will for the most part be less than the steam which goeth from the lesser loadstone to the iron. And though the other steam be never so great yet it can not draw more than according to the proportion of its Antagonists coming from the iron. Wherefore seeing the two steames betwixt the iron and the little loadstone, are more proportionable to one an other, and the steam coming out of the little loadstone is notably greater, than the steam going from the iron to the greater loadstone; the conjunction must be made for the most part to the little loadstone. And if this discourse doth not hold in the former part of the Problem betwixt a second iron and a loadstone, it is supplied by the former reason which we gave for that particular purpose.  
The third case dependeth also of this solution▪ for the bigger an iron is, so many more parts it hath to suck up the influence of the loadstone; and consequently, doth it thereby the more greedily: and therefore the loadstone must be carried to it more violently, and when they are joined, 
9 Why the variation of a touched needle from the north, is greater, the nearer you go to the Pole.  stick more strongly.  
The sixth question is, why the variations of the needle from the true north, in the northern hemisphere, are greater, the nearer you go to the Pole, and lesser the nearer you approach to the Aequator. The reason whereof is plain in our doctrine; for, considering that the magnetike virtue of the earth, streameth from the north towards the aequator; it followeth of necessity, that if there be two streams of magnetike fluours issuing from the north, one of them, precisely from the pole, and the other from a part of the earth near the pole; and that the stream coming from the point by side the pole, be but a little the stronger of the two; there will appear very little differences in their several operations, after they have had a long space to mingle their emanations together; which thereby do join, and grow as it were into one stream. Whereas the nearer you come to the pole, the more you will find them severed, and each of them working by its own virtue. And very near the point which causeth the variation, each stream worketh singly by itself; and therefore here, the point of variation must be master, and will carry the needle strongly unto his course from the due north, if his stream be never so little more efficacious than the other.  
Again; a line drawn from a point of the earth wide of the pole, to a point of the meridian near the aequator, maketh a less angle, than a line drawn from the same point of the earth to a point of the same meridian nearer the pole: wherefore, the variation being esteemed by the quantities of the said angles, it must needs be greater near the pole, then near the aequator, though the cause be the same.  
But because it may happen, that in the parts near the aequator, the variation may proceed from some piece of land, not much more northerly than where the needle is; but that beareth rather easterly or westerly from it; and yet Gilberts assertion goeth universally, when he saith the variations in southern regions are less, then in northern ones: we must examine what may be the reason thereof. And presently the generation of the loadstone showeth it plainly: for seeing the nature of the loadstone proceedeth out of this, that the sun worketh more upon the torride zone, then upon the poles; and that his too strong operation, is contrary to the loadstone, as being of the nature of fire; it followeth evidently that the lands of the torride zone can not be so magnetical (generally speaking) as the polar lands are; and by consequence that a lesser land near the pole, will have a greater effect, than a larger continent near the aequator: and likewise a land further off towards the pole, will work more strongly than a nearer land which lieth towards the aequator. 
10 Whether in the same part of the world a touched needle may at one time vary more from the north, and at an other time less.   
The seventh question is, whether in the same part of the world a touched needle may at one time vary more from the true north point, and at an other time less? In which Gilbert was resolute for the negative part: but our latter Mathematiciens are of an other mind. Three experiences were made near London in three divers years. The two first, 42 years distant from one an other; and the third 12 years distant from the second. And by them it is found that in the space of 54 years, he loadstone hath at London diminished his variation from the north, the quantity of 7 degrees and more. But so that in the latter years the diminution hath sensibly gone faster than in the former.  
These observations peradventure are but little credited by strangers; but we who know the worth of the men that made them, can not mistrust any notable error in them: for they were very able mathematicians, and they made their observations with very great exactness; and there were several judicious witnesses at the making of them; as may be seen in Mr. Gillebrand his print concerning this subject. And divers other particular persons do confirm the same▪ whose credit, though each single might peradventure be slighted, yet all in body make a great accession.  
We must therefore cast about to find what may be the cause of an effect so paradox to the rest of the doctrine of the loadstone: for seeing that no one place, can stand otherwise to the north of the earth at one time then at an other; how is it possible that the needle should receive any new variation, since all variation proceedeth out of the inequality of the earth? But when we consider that this effect proceedeth not out of the main body of the earth; but only out of the bark of it; and that its bark, may have divers tempers not as yet discovered unto us; and that out of the variety of these tempers, the influence of the earthy parts may be divers in respect of one certain place; it is not impossible but that such variation may be; especially in England: which Island lying open to the north, by a great and vast ocean; may receive more particularly than other places, the special influences and variation of the weather, that happen in those northeasterne countries from whence this influence cometh unto us. If therefore there should be any course of weather, whose period were a hundred years (for example) or more or less, and so might easily pass unmarked; this variation might grow out of such a course.  
But in so obscure a thing, we have already hazarded to guess too much. And upon the whole matter of the loadstone, it serveth our turn, if we have proved (as we conceive we have done fully) that its motions which appear so admirable, do not proceed from an occult quality; but that the causes of them may be reduced unto local motion; and that all they may be performed by such corporeal instruments and means (though peradventure more intricately disposed) as all other effects are among bodies. Whose ordering and disposing and particular progress, there is no reason to despair of finding out; would but men carefully apply themselves to that work, upon solid principles and with diligent experiences.  
But because this matter hath been very long, 
11 The whole doctrine of the loadstone summed up in short.  and scatteringly diffused in many several branches; peradventure it will not be displeasing to the Reader to see the whole nature of the loadstone summed up in short. Let him then cast his eyes upon one effect of it, that is very easy to be tried and is acknowledged by all writers; though we have not as yet mentioned it. And it is, that a knife drawn from the pole of a loadstone towards the aequator, if you hold the point towards the pole, it gaineth a respect to one of the poles: but contrawise, if the point of the knife be held towards the aequator, and be thrust the same way it was drawn before (that is, towards the aequator) it gaineth a respect towards the contrary pole.  
It is evident out of this experience, that the virtue of the loadstone is communicated by way of streams; and that in it, there are two contrary streams: for otherwise the motion of the knife this w●y or that way, could not change the efficacity of the same parts of the loadstone. It is likewise evident, that these contrary streams, do come from the conrrary ends of the loadstone. As also, that the virtues, of them both, are in every part of the stone. Likewise that one loadstone, must of necessity turn certain parts of itself, to certain parts of an other loadstone; nay that it must go and join to it, according to the laws of attraction which we have above delivered: and consequently that they must turn their disagreeing parts away from one an other; and so, one loadstone seem to fly from an other, if they be so applied that their disagreeing parts be kept still next to one an other: for in this case, the disagreeing and the agreeing parts of the same loadstone, being in the same strait line; one loadstone seeking to draw his agreeing part near to that part of the other loadstone which agreeth with him, must of necessity turn away his disagreeing parts to give way unto his agreeing part to approach nearer.  
And thus you see that the flying from one an other of two ends of two loadestones, which are both of the same denomination (as for example the two south ends, or the two north ends) doth not proceed from a pretended antipathy between those two ends, but from the attraction of the agreeing ends.  
Furthermore, the earth, having to a loadstone the nature of a loadstone; it followeth that a loadstone must necessarily turn itself to the poles of the earth by the same laws. And consequently, must tend to the north, must vary from the north, must incline towards the centre, and must be affected with all such accidents as we have deduced of the loadstone.  
And lastly; seeing that iron is to a loadstone, a fit matter for it to impress its nature in, and easily retaineth that magnetike virtue; the same effects that follow between two loadestones, must necessarily follow between a loadstone, and a piece of iron fitly proportionated in their degrees: excepting some little particularities, which proceed out of the naturalness of the magnetike virtue to a loadstone, more than to iron.  
And thus you see the nature of the loadstone summed up in gross; the particular joints and causes whereof, you may find treated at large in the main discourse. Wherein we have governed ourselves chiefly by the experiences that are recorded by Gilbert and Cabeus; to whom, we remit our reader for a more ample declaration of particulars.   

THE THREE AND TWENTIETH CHAPTER. A description of the two sorts of living creatures; Plants, and Animals: and how they are framed in common to perform vital motion.  
HItherto we have endeavoured to follow by a continual third, 
1 The connexion of the following Chapters with the precedent ones.  all such effects as we have met with among bodies, and to trace them in all their windings, and to drive them up to their very root and original source: for the nature of our subject having been yet very common, hath not exceeded the compass and power of our search and enquiry, to descend unto the chief circumstances and particulars belonging unto it. And indeed, many of the conveyances whereby the operations we have discoursed of, are performed, be so secret and abstruse, as they that look into them with less heedefullnesse and judgement than such a matter requireth, are too apt to impute them to mysterious causes above the reach of humane nature to comprehend, and to calumniate them of being wrought by occult and specifike qualities; whereof no more reason could be given, then if the effects were infused by Angelical hands without assistance of inferior bodies: which useth to be the last refuge of ignorant men, who not knowing what to say, and yet presuming to say something, do fall often upon such expressions, as neither themselves nor their hearers understand; and that if they be well scanned, do imply contradictions Therefore we deemed it a kind of necessity to strain ourselves to prosecute most of such effects, even to their notional connexion's with rarity and density. And the rather because it hath not been our luck yet to meet with any that hath had the like design, or hath done any considerable matter to ease our pains. Which can not but make the reader's journey somewhat tedious unto him to follow all our steps, by reason of the ruggedness, and untrodenesse of the paths we have walked in.  
But now the effects we shall hence forward meedle withal, do grow so particular, and do swarm into such a vast multitude of several little joints, and wreathy labyrinths of nature, as were impossible in so summary a treatise, as we intent, to deliver the causes of every one of them exactly; which would require, both large discourses and abundance of experiences to acquitt ourselves as we ought of such a task. Nor is there a like need of doing it as formerly, for as much as concerneth our design; since the causes of them are palpably material, and the admirable artifice of them, consisteth only in the Daedalean and wonderful ingenious ordering and ranging them one with an other.  
We shall therefore entreat our Reader from this time forwardly to expect only the common sequel of those particular effects, out of the principles already laid. And when some shall occur, that may peradventure seem at the first sight to be enacted immediately by a virtue spiritual, and that proceedeth indivisibly, in a different strain from the ordinary processes which we see in bodies and in bodily things (that is by the virtues of rarity and density, working by local motion) we hope he will be satisfied at our hands, if we lay down a method, and trace out a course, whereby such events and operations may follow out of the principles we have laid. Though peradventure we shall not absolutely convince that every effect is done just as we set it down in every particular, and that it may not as well be done by some other disposing of parts, under the same general scope: for it is enough for our turn if we show that such effects may be performed by corporeal agents, working as other bodies do; without confining ourselves to an exactness in every link of the long chain that must be wound up in the performance of them.  

2 Concerning several compositions of mixed bodies.  To come then to the matter; the next thing we are to employ ourselves about, now that we have explicated the natures of those motions by means whereof bodies are made and destroyed; and in which they are to be considered chiefly as passive, whiles some exterior agent working upon them causeth such alterations in them, and bringeth them to such pass as we see in the changes that are daily wrought among substances; is, to take a survey of those motions which some bodies have, wherein they seem to be not so much patients as agents; and do contain with in themselves the principle of their own motion; and have no relation to any outward object, more than to stir up that principle of motion, and set it on work: which when it is once in act, hath as it were within the limits of its own kingdom, and severed from commerce with all other bodies whatsoever, many other subaltern motions over which it presideth.  
To which purpose we may consider that among the compounded bodies whose natures we have explicated; there are some, in whom the parts of different complexions are so small and so well mingled together, that they make a compound, which to our sense seemeth to be all of it quite through, of one homogeneous nature; and howsoever it be divided, each part retaineth the entire and complete nature of the whole. Others again there are, in which it is easy to discern that the whole is made up of several great parts of very differing natures and tempers.  
And of these, there are two kinds: the one, of such, as their differing parts seem to have no relation to one an other, or correspondence together to perform any particular work, in which all of them are necessary; but rather they seem to be made what they are, by chance and by accident; and if one part be severed from an other, each is an entire thing by itself, of the same nature as it was in the whole; and no harmony is destroyed by such division. As may be observed in some bodies digged out of mines, in which one may see lumps of mettle, oore, stone, and glass, and such different substances, in their several distinct situations, perfectly compacted into one continuate body; which if you divide, the glass remaineth what it was before, the Emerald is still an Emerald, the silver is good silver, and the like of the other substances: the causes of which, may be easily deduced out of what we have formerly said. But there are other bodies in which this manifest and notable difference of parts, carrieth with it such a subordination of one of them unto an other; as we can not doubt but that nature made such engines (if so I may call them) by design; and intended that this variety should be in one thing; whose unity and being what it is, should depend of the harmony of the several differing parts, and should be destroyed by their separation. As we see in living creatures; whose particular parts and members being once severed there is no longer a living creature to be found among them.  
Now of this kind of bodies, 
3 Two sorts of living creatures.  there are two sorts. The first is of those that seem to be one continuate substance, wherein we may observe one and the same constant progress throughout, from the lowest unto the highest part of it; so that, the operation of one part is not at all different from that of an other: but the whole body seemeth to be the course and through fare of one constant action, varying itself in divers occasions, and occurrences, according to the disposition of the subject.  
The bodies of the second sort, have their parts so notably separated one from the other; and each of them have such a peculiar motion proper unto them, that one might conceive they were every one of them a complete distinct total thing by itself, and that all of them were artificially tied together; were it not, that the subordination of these parts to one an other is so great, and the correspondence between them so strict, (the one not being able to subsist without the other, from whom he deriveth what is needful for him; and again being so useful unto that other and having its action and motion so fitting and necessary for it, as without it that other can not be;) as plainly convinceth that the compound of all these senerall parts must needs be one individual thing.  
I remember that when I travailed in spain, I saw there two engines that in some sort do express the natures of these two kinds of bodies. 
4 An engine to express the first sort of living creatures.  The one at Toledo, the other at Segovia: both of them set on work by the current of the river, in which the foundation of their machine was laid. That at Toledo, was to force up water a great hieght from the river Tagus to the Alcazar (the King his palace) that standeth upon a high steep hill or rock, almost perpendicular over the river. In the bottom, there was an indented wheel, which turning round with the stream, gave motion at the same time to the whole engine: which consisted of a multitude of little troughes or square ladles set one over an other, in two parallel rows over against one an other, from the bottom to the top, and upon two several divided frames of timber. These troughes were closed at one end with a traverse board to retain the water from running out there; which end being bigger than the rest of the trough, made it somewhat like a ladle: and the rest of it, seemed to be the handle with a channel in it, the little end of which channel or trough was open to let the water pass freely away. And these troughes were fastened by an axletree in the middle of them, to the frame of timber that went from the bottom up to the top: so that they could upon that centre move at liberty either the shut end downwards, or the open end; like the beam of a balance.  
Now at a certain position of the root wheel (if so I may call it) all one side of the machine sunk down a little lower towards the water, and the other was raised a little higher. Which motion was changed, as soon as the ground wheel had ended the remnant of his revolution: for then, the side th●t was lowest before, sprung up, and the other sunk down. And thus, the two sides of the machine, were like two legs that by turns trod the water; as in the vintage, men press grapes in a watte. Now the troughes that were fastened to the timber which descended, turned that part of them downwards which was like a box shut to hold the water: and consequently, the open end was up in the air, like the arm of the balance unto which the lightest scale is fastened: and in the mean time, the troughes upon the ascending timber, were moved by a contrary motion; keeping their box ends aloft, and letting the open ends incline downwards: so that if any water were in them, it would let it run out; whereas the others retained any that came into them.  
When you have made an image of this machine in your fantasy, consider what will follow out of its motion. You will perceive that when one leg sinketh down towards the water, that trough which is next to the superficies of it, putting down his box end, and dipping it a little in the water; must needs bring up as much as it can retain, when that leg ascendeth: which when it is at its height, the trough moveth upon his own centre; and the box end, which was lowest, becometh now highest, and so the water runneth out of it. Now the other leg descending at the same time; it falleth out that the trough on its side, which would be a step above that which hath the water in it, if they stood in equilibrity, becometh now a step lower than it: and is so placed, that the water which runneth out of that which is aloft, falleth into the head or box of it; which no sooner hath received it, but that leg on which it is fastened, springeth up, and the other descendeth: so that the water of the second leg, runneth now into the box of the first leg, that is next above that which first laded the water out of the river. And thus, the troughes of the two legs deliver their water by turns from one side to the other; and at every remooue, it getteth a step upwardly, till it cometh to the top; whiles at every ascent and descent of the whole side, the lowest ladle or trough taketh new water from the river; which ladefull followeth immediately in its ascent, that which was taken up the time before. And thus, in a little while, all the troughes from the bottom to the top are full; unless there happen to be some failing in some ladle: and in that case the water breaketh out there; and all the ladles above that, are dry.  
The other engine, 
5 An other engine by which may be expressed the second sort of living creatures.  or rather multitude of several engines, to perform sundry different operations, all conducing to one work (whereas, that of Toledo, is but one tenor of motion, from the first to the last;) is in the mint at Segovia. Which is so artificially made, that one part of it, distendeth an ingott of silver or gold into that breadth and thickness as is requisite to make coin of. Which being done, it delivereth the plate it hath wrought, unto an other that printeth the figure of the coin upon it. And from thence it is turned over to an other that cutteth it according to the print, into due shape and weight. And lastly, the several pieces fall into a reserve, in an other room; where the officer, whose charge it is, findeth treasure ready coined; without any thing there, to inform him of the several different motions that the silver or the gold passed before they came to that state. But if he go on the other side of the wall, into the room where the other machine's stand and are at work, he will then discern that every one of them, which considered by itself might seem a distinct complete engine, is but a serving part of the whole; whose office is, to make money: and that for this work, any one of them separated from the rest, ceaseth to be the part of a mint, and the whole is maimed and destroyed.  
Now let us apply the consideration of these different kinds of engines, 
6 The two former engines and some other comparisons applied to express the two several sorts of living creatures.  to the natures of the bodies we treat of. Which I doubt not, would fit much better, were they lively and exactly described. But it is so long since I saw them, and I was then so very young, that I retain but a confufed and cloudy remembrance of them: especially of the mint at Segovia, in the which there are many more particulars than I have touched; as conveniency for refining the oore or mettle; and then casting it into ingots; and driving them into rods; and such like: unto all which, there is little help of hands requisite, more than to apply the matter duly at the first. But what I have said of them, is enough to illustrate what I aim at: and though I should err in the particulars, it is no great matter; for I intent not to deliver the history of them: but only out of the remembrance of such note full and artificial Masterpeeces, to frame a model in their fancies that shall read this, of something like them; whereby they may with more ease, make a right conception of what we are handling.  
Thus than all sorts of plants, both great and small, may be compared to our first engine of the waterworke at Toledo, for in them, all the motion we can discern, is of one part transmitting unto the next to it, the juice which it received from that immediately before it: so that it hath one constant course from the root (which sucketh it from the earth) unto the top of the highest sprig: in which, if it should be intercepted and stopped by any maiming of the bark (the channel it ascendeth by) it would there break out and turn into drops, or gum, or some such other substance as the nature of the plant requireth: and all that part of it unto which none of this juice can ascend would dry and wither and grow dead.  
But sensible living creatures, we may fitly compare to the second machine of the mint at Segovia. For in them, though every part and member, be as it were a complete thing of itself, yet every one, requireth to be directed and put on in its motion by an other; and they must all of them (though of very different natures and kinds of motion) conspire together to effect any thing that may be, for the use and service of the whole. And thus we find in them perfectly the nature of a mover and a movable; each of them moving differently from one an other, and framing to themselves their own motions, in such sort as is most agreeable to their nature, when that part which setteth them on work hath stirred them up.  
And now because these parts (the movers, and the moved) are parts of one whole; we call the entire thing Automatum or se movens; or a living creature. Which also may be fitly compared to a joiner, or a painter, or other crafte●man, that had his tools so exactly fitted about him, as when he had occasion to do any thing in his trade, his tool for that action were already in the fittest position for it, to be made use of; so as without removing himself from the place where he might sit environed with his tools, he might, by only pulling of some little chords, either apply the matter to any remote tool, or any of his tools to the matter he would work upon, according as he findeth the one or the other more convenient for performance of the action he intendeth.  
Whereas in the other, there is no variety of motions; but one and the same, goeth quite through the body from one end of it to the other. And the passage of the moisture through it, from one part to an other next (which is all the motion it hath) is in a manner but like the rising of water in a still, which by heat is made to creep up by the sides of the glass; and from thence runneth through the nose of the limb●ke, and falleth into the receiver. So that, if we will say that a plant liveth, or that the whole moveth itself, and every part moveth other; it is to be understood in a far more imperfect manner, then when we speak of an animal: and the same words are attributed to both, in a kind of aequivocal sense. But by the way I must note, that under the title of plants I include not zoophytes or plantanimals: that is such creatures as though they go not from place to place, and so cause a local motion of their whole substance, yet in their parts, they have a distinct and articulate motion.  
But to leave comparisons, 
7 How plants are framed.  and come to the proper nature of the things: let us frame a conception, that not far under the superficies of the earth, there were gathered together divers parts of little mixed bodies, which in the whole sum were yet but little: and that this little mass had some excess of fire in it, such as we see in wet hay, or in must of wine, or in wort of beer: and that withal the drought of it were in so high a degree, as this heat should not find means (being too much compressed) to play his game: and that, lying there in the bosom of the earth, it should after some little time receive its expected and desired drink through the benevolence of the heaven; by which it being moistened, and thereby made more pliable, and tender and easy to be wrought upon, the little parts of fire should break loose; and they finding this moisture a fit subject to work upon, should drive it into all the parts of the little mass, and digesting it there should make the mass swell. Which action, taking up long time for performance of it, in respect of the small increase of bulk made in the mass by the swelling of it; could not be hindered by the pressing of the earth, though lying never so weightily upon it: according to the maxim we have above delivered, that any little force, be it never so little; is able to overcome any great resistance, be it never so powerful; if the force do multiply the time it worketh in, sufficiently to equalife the proportions of the agent and the resistant. This increase of bulk and swelling of the little mass, will of its own nature be towards all sides, by reason of the fire and heat that occasioneth it (whose motion is on every side, from the centre to the circumference:) but it will be most efficacious upwardly, towards the air, because the resistance is least that way; both by reason of the little thickness of the earth over it; as also by reason that the upper part of the earth lieth very loose and is exceeding porous, through the continual operation of the sun and falling of rain upon it. It can not choose therefore but mount to the air; and the same cause that maketh it do so, presseth at the same time the lower parts of the mass, downwards. But what ascendeth to the air, must be of the hotter and more moist parts of the fermenting mass; and what goeth downwards must be of his harder and drier parts proportionate to the contrary motions of fire and of earth, which predominate in these two kinds of parts. Now this that is pushed upwardly, coming above ground, and being there exposed to sun and wind, contracteth thereby a hard and rough skin on its outside; but within is more tender; in this sort it defendeth itself from outward injuries of weather whiles it mounteth: and by thrusting other parts down into the earth, it holdeth itself steadfast, that although the wind may shake it, yet it can not overthrow it. The greater this plant groweth, the more juice is daily accrued unto it, and the heat is increased; and consequently, the greater abundance of humours is continually sent up. Which when it beginneth to clog at the top, new humour pressing upwardly, forceth a breach in the skin; and so a new piece, like the main stem, is thrust out and beginneth on the sides, which we call a branch. Thus is our plant amplified, till nature not being able still to breed such strong issues, falleth to works of less labour, and pusheth forth the most elaborate part of the plants juice into more tender substances: but especially, at the ends of the branches; where, abundant humour, but at the first, not well concocted, groweth into the shape of a button; and more and better concocted humour succeeding, it groweth softer and softer (the sun drawing the subtlest parts outwardly) excepting what the coldness of the air and the roughness of the wind do harden into an outward skin. So then the next parts to the skin, are tender; but the very middle of this button must be hard and dry, by reason that the sun from without, and the natural heat within, drawing and driving out the moisture and extending it from the centre, must needs leave the more earthy parts much shrunk up and hardened by their evaporating out from them: wh●ch hardening, being an effect of fire within and without, that baketh this hard substance, incorporateth much of itself with it, as we have formerly declared in the making of salt by force of fire. This button, thus dilated, and brought to this pass, we call the fruit of the plant: whose harder part, encloseth oftentimes, an other not so hard as dry. The reason whereof is because the outward hardness permitteth no moisture to soak in any abundance through it; and then, that which is enclosed in it, must needs be much dried; though not so much, but that it still retaineth the common nature of the plant. This drought, maketh these inner parts to be like a kind of dult; or at the least, such as may be easily dried into dust, when they are bruised out of the husk that encloseth them. And in every parcel of this dust, the nature of the whole resideth; as it were contracted into a small quantity; for the juice which was first in the button, and had passed from the root through the manifold varieties of the divers parts of the plant, and had suffered much concoction, partly from the sun and partly from the inward heat imprisoned in that harder part of the fruit; is by these passages, strainings, and concoctions, become at the length to be like a tincture extracted out of the whole plant; and is at the last dried up into a kind of magistery. This we call the seed: which is, of a fit nature, by being buried in the earth and dissolved with humour, to renew and reciprocate the operation we have thus described. And thus, you have the formation of a Plant.  
But a sensive creature, being compared to a plant, as a plant is to a mixed body; 
8 How sensitive creatures are form.  you can not but conceive that he must be compounded as it were of many plants, in like sort as a plant is of many mixed bodies. But so, that all the plants which concur to make one animal, are of one kind of nature and cognation: and besides; the matter, of which such diversity is to be made, must of necessity be more humid and figurable, then that of an ordinary plant: and the artificer which worketh and mouldeth it, must be more active. Wherefore we must suppose that the mass, of which an animal is to be made, must be actually liquid: and the fire that worketh upon it, must be so powerful that of its own nature, it may be able to convert this liquid matter into such breaths and steames, as we see do use to rise from water, when the sun or fire worketh upon it. Yet if the mass were altogether as liquid as water, it would vanish away by heat boiling it, and be dried up: therefore it must be of such a convenient temper, that although in some of its parts it be fluid and apt to run; yet by others it must be held together; as we see that unctuous things for the most part are; which will swell by heat, but not fly away.  
So than if we imagine a great heat to be imprisoned in such a liquor; and that it seeketh by boiling, to break out; but that the solidenesse and viscousnesse of the substance will not permit it to evaporate: it can not choose but comport itself in some such sort as we see butter or oil in a frying pan over the fire, when it riseth in bubbles: but much more efficaciously; for their body is not strong enough to keep in the heat; and therefore those bubbles fall again; whereas if it were, those bubbles would rise higher and higher, and stretch themselves longer and longer (as when the soap boilers do boil a strong unctuous lie into soap;) and every one of them would be as it were a little brook, whereof the channel would be the enclosing substance; and the inward smoke that extendeth it, might be compared to the water of it: as when a glass is blown out by fire and air into a long figure.  
Now we may remember, how we have said, where we treated of the production and resolution of mixed bodies, that there are two sorts of liquid substantial parts, which by the operation of fire are sent out of the body it worketh upon; the watery, and the oily parts. For though there appear some times some very subtle and aethereal parts of a third kind (which are the aquae ardentes, or burning spirits;) yet in such a close distilling of circulation as this is, they are not severed by themselves, but do accompagny the rest; and especially the watery parts: which are of a nature, that the rising Ethereal spirits easily mingle with, and extend themselves in it; whereby the water becometh more efficacious, and the spirits less fugitive.  
Of these liquid parts which the fire sendeth away, the watery ones are the first, as being the easiest to be raised: the oily parts, rise more difficultly; and therefore do come last. And in the same manner it happeneth in this emission of brooks, the watery and oily steames will each of them fly into different reserves; and if there arrive unto them, abundance of their own quality, each of them must make a substance of its own nature by settling in a convenient place, and by due concoction. Which substance after it is made and confirmed, if more humidity and heat do press it, will again break forth into other little channels. But when the watery and oily parts are boiled away, there remain yet behind other more solid and fixed parts, and more strongly incorporated with fire then either of these: which yet can not dry up into a fiery salt, because a continual accession of humour keepeth them always flowing: and so they become like a couldron of boiling fire. Which must propagate itself as wide as either of the others; since the activity of it must needs be greater than theirs (as being the source of motion unto them) and that there wanteth not humidity for it to extend itself by.  
And thus you see three roots of three divers plants, all in the same plant, proceeding by natural resolution from one primitive source. Whereof that which is most watery, is fittest to fabricate the body and common outside of the triformed plant; since water is the most figurable principle that is in nature, and the most susceptible of multiplication; and by its cold is easiest to be hardened, and therefore fittest to resist the injuries of enemy bodies that may infest it. The oily parts, are fittest for the continuance and solidity of the plant: for we see that viscosity and oiliness, hold together the parts where they abound; and they are slowly wasted by fire, but do conserve and are an aliment to the fire that consumeth them. The parts of the third kind, are fittest for the conservation of heat: which though in them it be too violent; yet it is necessary for working upon other parts, and for mainetaining a due temper in them.  
And thus we have armed our plant with three sorts of rivers or brooks to run through him, with as many different streams; the one of a gentle balsamike oil; an other, of streaming fire; and the third of a connatural and cooler water to irrigate and temper him. The streams of water, (as we have said) must run through the whole fabric of this triformed plant: and because it is not a simple water, but warm in a good degree, and as it were a middle substance betwixt water and air (by reason of the ardent volatile spirit that is with it) it is of a fit nature to swell as air doth; and yet withal to resist violence in a convenient degree, as water doth. Therefore, if from its source, nature sendeth abundance into any one part; that part must swell and grow thicker and shorter; and so, must be contracted that way which nature hath ordered it. Whence we perceive a means, by which nature may draw any part of the outward fabric, which way soever she is pleased by set instruments for such an effect. But when there is no motion, or but little in these pipes, the standing stream that is in a very little, though long channel, must needs be troubled in its whole body, if any one part of it be pressed upon, so as to receive thereby any impression: and therefore, whatsoever is done upon it, though at the very furthest end of it; maketh a commotion and sendeth an impression up to its very source. Which appearing by our former discourse to be the origine of particular and occasional motions; it is obvious to conceive how it is apt to be moved and wrought by such an impression to set on foot the beginning of any motion; which by nature's providence is convenient for the plant, when such an impression is made upon it.  
And thus you see this plant hath the virtue both of sense or feeling; that is, of being moved and affected by extern objects, lightly striking upon it; as also, of moving itself, to or from such an object; according as nature shall have ordained. Which in sum is; that this plant is a sensitive creature, composed of three sources; the heart, the brain, and the liver: whose offspringes are the arteries, the nerves, and the veins; which are filled with vital spirits, with animal spirits, and with blood: and by these, the animal is heated, nourished, and made partaker of sense and motion.  
Now referring the particular motions of living creatures, to an other time: we may observe that both kinds of them, as well vegetables as animals do agree in the nature of sustaining themselves in the three common actions of generation, nutrition, and augmentation; which are the beginning, the progress, and the conserving of life. Unto which three we may add the not so much action as passion of death; and of sickness or decay, which is the way to death.   

THE FOUR AND TWENTIETH CHAPTER. A more particular survey of the generation of Animals; in which is discovered what part of the animal is first generated.  
TO begin then with examining how living creatures are engendered: 
1 The opinion that the seed containeth formally every part of the parent.  our main question shall be; whether they be framed entirely at once; or successively, one part after an other? And if this later way; which part first? Upon the discussion of which, all that concerneth generation will be explicated, as much as concerneth our purpose in hand. To deduce this from its origine: we may remember how our Masters tell us, that when any living creature is passed the heat of its augmentation or growing; the superfluous nourishment settleth itself in some appointed place of the body to serve for the production of some other. Now it is evident that this superfluity cometh from all parts of the body, and may be said to contain in it, after some sort, the perfection of the whole living creature. Be it how it will, it is manifest that the living creature is made, of this superfluous moisture of the parent: which according to the opinion of some, being compounded of several parts derived from the several limbs of the parent; those parts when they come to be fermented in convenient heat and moisture, do take their posture, and situation, according to the posture and disposition of parts that the living creature had, from whence they issued: and then they growing daily greater and solider, (the effects of moisture and of heat;) do at the length become such a creature as that was, from whence they had their origine.  
Which, an accident that I remember, seemeth much to confirm. It was of a cat that had its tail cut of when it was very young: which cat happening afterwards to have young ones, half the kittlinges proved without tails, and the other half had them in an ordinary manner; as if nature could supply but on the partner's side, not on both. And an other particular that I saw when I was at Algiers, maketh to this purpose, which was, of a woman that having two thumbs upon the left hand; four daugthers that she had, did all resemble her in the same accident, and so did a little child, a girl of her eldest daugthers; but none of her sons. Whiles I was there I had a particular curiosity to see them all: and though it be not easily permitted unto Christians to speak familiarly with Mahometan women; yet the condition I was in there, and the civility of the basha, gave me the opportunity of full view and discourse with them: and the old woman told me, that her mother and Grandmother had been in the same manner. But for them, it resteth upon her credit: the others I saw myself.  

2 The former opinion rejected.  But the opinion which these accidents seem to support; though at the first view it seemeth smoothly to satisfy our inquiry, and fairly to compass the making of a living creature: yet looking further into it, we shall find it fall exceeding short of its promising; and meet with such difficulties, as it can not overcome. For first, let us cast about how this compound of several parts, that serveth for the generation of a new living creature, can be gathered from every part and member of the parent; so to carry with it in little the complete nature of it. The meaning hereof must be, that this superfluous aliment, either passeth through all and every little part and particle of the parents body, and in its passage receiveth something from them: or else, that it receiveth only from all similar and great parts.  
The former seemeth impossible, for how can one imagine that such juice should circulate the whole body of an animal, and visit every atom of it, and retire to the reserve where it is kept for generation; and no part of it remain absolutely hehind, sticking to the flesh or bones that it bedeaweth; but that still some part returneth back from every part of the animal? Besides; consider how those parts that are most remote from the channels which convey this juice; when they are fuller of nourishment than they need, the juice which overfloweth from them, cometh to the next part, and settling there and serving it for its due nourishment, driveth back into the channel, that which was betwixt the channel and itself: so that here, there is no return at all from some of the remote pats; and much of that juice which is rejected, never went far from the channel itself. We may therefore safely conclude, that it is impossible, every little part of the whole body should remit something impregnated and imbued with the nature of it.  
But than you may peradventure say that every similar part doth. If so I would ask, how it is possible that by fermentation only, every part should regularly go to a determinate place, to make that kind of animal; in which, every similar part is diffused to so great an extent? How should the nature of flesh, here become broad, there round, and take just the figure of the part it is to cover? How should a bone, here be hollow, there be blady, and in an other part take the form of a rib, and those many figures which we see of bones? And the like we might ask of every other similar part, as of the veins and the rest. Again; seeing it must of necessity happen, that at one time more is remitted from one part then from an other; how cometh it to pass, that in the collection the due proportion of nature is so punctually observed? Shall we say that this is done by some cunning artificer whose work it is to set all these parts in their due posture; which Aristotele attributeth to the seed of the Male? But this is impossible; for all this diversity of work, is to be done at one time, and in the same occasions: which can no more be effected by one agent, than multiplicity can immediately proceed from unity.  
But besides that there can be no Agent to dispose of the part●s when they are gathered; it is evident that a sensitive creature may be made without any such gathering of parts beforehand from an other of the same kind: for else how could vermin breed out of living bodies, or out of corruption? How could rats come to fill ships, into which never any were brought? How could frogs be engendered in the air? Eels of deewy turfs, or of mud? Toads of ducks? Fish, of hernes? And the like. To the same purpose; when one species or kind of animal is changed into an other; as when a catarpiller or a silkworm becometh a fly; it is manifest that there can be no such precedent collection of parts.  
And therefore, 
3 The Author's opinion of this question.  there is no remedy; but we must seek out some other means and course of generation, then this. Unto which we may be led, by considering how a living creature is nourished and augmented: for why should not the parts be made in generation of a matter like to that which maketh them in nutrition? If they be augmented by one kind of juice that after several changes, turneth at the length into flesh and bone; and into every sort of mixed body or similar part, whereof the sensitive creature is compounded; and that joineth itself to what it findeth already made, why should not the same juice, with the same progress of heat and moisture, and other due temperaments; be converted at the first into flesh and bone though none be formerly there to join itself unto?  
Let us then conclude that the juice which serveth for nourishment of the animal, being more than is requisite for that service; the superfluous part of it, is drained from the rest, and is reserved in a place fit for it: where by little and little through digestion, it gaineth strength and vigour and spirits to itself, and becometh an homogeneal body, such as other simple compounds are; which by other degrees of heat and moisture, is changed into an other kind of substance: and that again; by other temperaments, into an other. And thus; by the course of nature, and by passing successively many degrees of temper, and by receiving a total change in every one of them; at the length an animal is made of such juice as afterwards serveth to nourish him. 
4 Their opinion refuted, who hold that every thing containeth formally all things.   
But to bring this to pass a shorter way, and with greater facility; some have been of opimon, that all similar things of whatsoever substance, are undiscernably mixed in every thing that is: and that to the making of any body out of any thing; there is no more required but to gather together those parts which are of that kind, and to separate, and cast away from them, all those which are of a nature differing from them.  
But this speculation will appear a very airy and needless one, if we consider into how many several substances the same species of a thing may be immediately changed; or rather, how many several substances may be increased immediately from several equal individuals of the same thing; and then take an account how much of each individual is gone into each substance which it hath so increased. For if we sum up the quantities that in the several substances are thereby increased; we shall find that they do very much exceed the whole quantity of any one of the individuals; which should not be if the supposition were true; for every individual should be but one total made up of the several different similar parts, which increase the several substances, that extract out of them what is of their own nature.  
This will be better understood by an example: suppose that a man, a horse, a cow, a sheep, and 500 more several species of living creatures, should make a meal of lettuce: to avoid all perplexity in conceiving the argument, let us allow that every one did eat a pound; and let us conceive an other pound of this herb to be burned; as much to be putrified under a Cabage root; and the like under 500 plants more of divers species. Then cast how much of every pound of lettuce is turned into the substances that are made of them, or that are increased by them; as, how much ashes, one pound hath made; how much water hath been distilled out of an other pound; how much a man hath been increased by a third; how much a horse by a fourth; how much earth by the putrefaction of a fifth pound, how much a cabage hath been increased by a sixth: and so go over all the pounds that have been turned into substances of different specieses (which may be multiplied as much as you please.) And when you have summed up all these several quantities, you will find them far to exceed the quantity of one pound: which it would not do, if every pound of lettuce were made up of several different similar parts actually in it, that are extracted by different substances of the natures of those parts; and that no substance could be increased by it, unless parts of its nature were originally in the lettuce.  
On the other side, 
5 The Author's opinion concerning the generation of Animals declared, and confirmed.  if we but cast our eye back upon the principles we have laid where we discourse of the composition of bodies, we shall discern how this work of changing one thing into an other; either in nutrition, in augmentation, or in generation; will appear not only possible, but easy to be effected. For out of them, it is made evident how the several varieties of solid and liquid bodies; all differences of natural qualities, all consistences, and whatsoever else belongeth to similar bodies; resulteth out of the pure and single mixture of rarity and density; so that to make all such varieties as are necessary, there is no need of mingling, or of separating any other kinds of parts: but only an art or power to mingle in due manner, plain rare and dense bodies one with an other. Which very action and none other (but with excellent method and order, such as becometh the great Architect that hath designed it) is performed in the generation of a living creature: which is made of a substance, at the first, far unlike what it afterwards groweth to be.  
If we look upon this change in gross, and consider but the two extremes (to wit, the first substance, of which a living creature is made; and itself in its full perfection) I confess, it may well seem incredible how so excellent a creature can derive its origine from so mean a principle, and so far remote and differing from what it groweth to be. But if we examine it in retail, and go along anatomising it in every step and degree that it changeth by; we shall find, that every immediate change is ●o near, and so palpably to be made by the concurrent causes of the matter prepared; as we must conclude, it can not possibly become any other thing then just what it doth become.  
Take a bean, or any other seed, and put it into the earth, and let water fall upon it; can it then choose but that the bean must swell? The bean swelling, can it choose but break the skin? The skin broken can it choose (by reason of the heat that is in it) but push out more matter, and do that action which we may call germinating? Can these germes choose but pierce the earth in small strings, as they are able to make their way? Can these strings choose but be hardened, by the compression of the earth, and by their own nature, they being the heavyest parts of the fermented bean? And can all this be any thing else but a root? Afterwards the heat that is in the root, mingling itself with more moisture, and according to its nature, springing upwardly; will it not follow necessarily, that a tender green substance twhich we call a bud, or leaf) must appear a little above the earth; since (endernesse, greenness, and ascent, are the effects of those two principles, heat and moisture? And must not this green substance change from what it was at the first, by the sun and air working upon it, as it groweth higher; till at the length it hardeneth into a stalk? All this while, the heat in the root sublimeth up more moisture, which maketh the stalk at the first grow rank and increase in length. But when the more volatile part of that warm juice, is sufficiently depured and sublimed, will it not attempt to thrust itself out beyond the stalk with much vigour and smartness? And as soon as it meeteth with the cold air in its eruption, will it not be stopped and thickened? And new parts flocking still from the root, must they not clog that issue, and grow into a button, which will be a bud? This bud being hardened at the sides, by the same causes which hardened the stalk, and all the while the inward heat still streaming up, and not enduring to be long enclosed, (especially when by its being stopped, it multiplieth itself) will it not follow necessarily that the tender bud must cleave, and give way to that spiritual juice; which being purer than the rest (through its great sublimation) showeth itself in a purer and nobler substance than any that is yet made; and so becometh a flower? From hence, if we proceed as we have begun, and do weigh all circumstances; we shall see evidently, that an other substance must needs succeed the flower, which must be hollow and contain a fruit in it: and that this fruit must grow bigger and harder. And so, to the last period of the generation of new beans.  
Thus by drawing the third carefully along through your fingers, and staying at every knot to examine how it is tied; you see that this difficult progress of the generation of living creatures, is obvious enough to be comprehended; and that the steps of it are possible to be set down; if one would but take the pains and afford the time that is necessary (less than that Philosopher, who for so many years gave himself wholly up to the single observing of the nature of bees) to note diligently all the circumstances in every change of it. In every one of which the thing that was, becometh absolutely a new thing; and is endued with new properties and qualities different from those it had before, as Physicians from their certain experience, do assure us. And yet every change is such, as in the ordinary and general course of nature (wherein nothing is to be considered, but the necessary effects following out of such Agents working upon such patients, in such circumstances) it is impossible that any other thing should be made of the precedent, but that which is immediately, subsequent unto it.  
Now if all this orderly succession of mutations be necessarily made in a bean, by force of sundry circumstances and external accidents; why may it not be conceived that the like is also done in sensible creatures; but in a more perfect manner, they being perfecter substances? Surely the progress we have set down is much more reasonable, then to conceive that in the meal of the bean, are contained in little, several similar substances; as, of a root, of a leaf, a stalk, a flower, a cod, fruit, and the rest; and that every one of these, being from the first still the same that they shall be afterwards, do but suck in, more moisture from the earth, to swell and enlarge themselves in quantity. Or, that in the seed of the male, there is already in act, the substance of flesh, of bone, of sinews, of veins, and the rest of those several similar parts which are found in the body of an animal; and that they are but extended to their due magnitude, by the humidity drawn from the mother, without receiving any substantial mutation from what they were originally in the seed.  
Let us then confidently conclude, that all generation is made of a fitting, but remote, homogeneal compounded substance: upon which, outward Agents working in the due course of nature, do change it into an other substance, quite different from the first, and do make it less homogeneal than the first was. And other circumstances and agents, do change this second into a thirde; that thirde, into a fourth; and so onwardly, by successive mutations (that still make every new thing become less homogeneal, than the former was, according to the nature of heat, mingling more and more different bodies together) until that substance be produced, which we consider in the period of all these mutations.  
And this, is evident out of many experiences: as for example in trees; the bark which is opposed to the north wind, is harder and thicker than the contrary side which is opposed to the south, and a great difference will appear in the grain of the wood; even so much, that skilful people, will by feeling and seeing a round piece of the wood after the tree is felled, tell you in what situation it grew, and which way each side of that piece looked. And josephus Acosta writeth of a tree in America, that on the one side being situated towards great hills, and on the other being exposed to the hot sun; the one half of it flourisheth at one time of the year, and the other half at the opposite season. And some such like may be the cause of the strange effects we sometimes see of trees, flourishing or bearing leaves at an unseasonable time of the year; as in particular, in the famous oak in the Newforest; and in some others in our Island: in which peradventure the soil they grow in, may do the same effect, as the winds and sun did in the tree that Acosta maketh mention of. For we daily see how some soils are so powerful over some kind of corn, that they will change the very nature of it; so that, you shall reap oats or rye, after you have sown wheat there.  
Which showeth evidently that since the outward circumstances can make the parts or the whole of any substance, become different from what they were at the first; generation is not made by aggregation of like parts to presupposed like ones: nor by a specifical worker within; but by the compounding of a seminary matter, with the juice which accrueth to it from without, and with the steames of circumstant bodies; which by an ordinary course of nature, are regularly imbibed in it by degrees; and which at every degree, do change it into a different thing, such an one as is capable to result out of the present compound, 
6 That one substance is changed into an other.  (as we have said before) until it arrive to its full perfection.  
Which yet is not the utmost period of nature's changes; for from that; for example, from corn or an animal, it carrieth it on (still changing it) to be meal or a cadaver: from thence to be bread or dirt: after that to be blood or grass. And so, still turning about her wheel (which suffereth nothing to remain long in the state it is in) she changeth all substances from one into an other. And by reiterated revolutions, maketh in time every thing of every thing: as when of mud she maketh tadpoles, and frogs, of them; and afterwards, mud again of the frogs: or when she runneth a like progress; from earth to worms; and from them, to flies; and the like: so changing one animal into such an other; as in the next precedent step, the matter in those circumstances is capable of being changed into; or rather (to say better) must necessarily be changed into.  
To confirm this by experience; I have been assured, by one who was very exact in noting such things; that he once observed in Spain, in the spring season, how a stick lying in a moist place, grew in tract of time to be most of it a rotten dirty matter; and that at the dirty end of the stick, there began a rude head to be form of it by little and little; and after a while some little legs began to discover themselves near this unpolished head, which daily grew more and more distinctly shaped. And then, for a pretty while (for it was in a place where he had the conveniencye, to observe daily the progress of it, and no body came near to stir it in the whole course of it) he could discern where it ceased to be a body of a living creature, and where it began to be dead stitch or dirt; all in one continuate quantity or body. But every day the body grew longer and longer, and more legs appeared, till at the length, when he saw the animal almost finished, and near separating itself from the rest of the stick, he stayed then by it, and saw it creep away in a catarpillar, leaving the stick and dirt, as much wanting of its first length, as the worm's body took up. Peradventure the greatest part of such creatures maketh their way by such steps into the world. But to be able to observe their progress thus distinctly as this Gentleman did, happeneth not frequently.  

7 Concerning the hatching of chickens, and the generation of other Animals.  Therefore, to satisfy ourselves herein it were well we made our remarkes in some creatures that might be continually in our power to observe in them the course of nature every day and hour. Sir John Heydon, the Lieutenant of his Majesty's ordinance (that generous and knowing Gentleman; and consummate soldier both in theory and practice) was the first that instructed me how to do this, by means of a furnace so made as to imitate the warmeth of a sitting hen. In which you may lay several eggs to hatch; and by breaking them at several ages you may distinctly observe every hourly mutation in them, if you please. The first will be, that on one side you shall find a great resplendent clearness in the white. After a while, a little spot of red matter like bload, will appear in the midst of that clearness fastened to the yolk: which will have a motion of opening and shutting; so as sometimes you will see it, and strait again it will vanish from your sight; and indeed at the first it is so little, that you can not see it, but by the motion of it; for at every pulse, as it openeth, you may see it, and immediately again, it shutteth in such sort, as it is not to be discerned. From this red speck, after a while there will stream out, a number of little (almost imperceptible) red veins. Att the end of some of which, in time there will be gathered together, a knot of matter which by little and little, will take the form of a head; and you will ere long begin to discern eyes and a beak in it. All this while the first red spot of blood, groweth bigger and solider: till at the length, it becometh a fleshy substance; and by its figure, may easily be discerned to be the hart: which as yet hath no other enclosure but the substance of the egg. But by little and little the rest of the body of an animal is framed out of those red veins which stream out all about from the hart. And in process of time, that body encloseth the heart within it by the chest, which groweth over on both sides, and in the end meeteth, and closeth itself fast together. After which this little creature soon filleth the shell, by converting into several parts of itself all the substance of the egg. And then growing weary of so strait an habitation, it breaketh prison, and cometh out, a perfectly form chicken.  
In like manner: in other creatures; which in latin are called Vivipara (because their young ones are quick in their mother's womb) we have, by the relation of that learned and exact searcher into nature, Doctor Harvey: that the seed of the male after his accouplling with the female, doth not remain in her womb in any sensible bulk: but (as it seemeth) evaporateth and incorporateth itself, either into the body of the womb, or rather into some more interior part, as into the seminary vessels. Which being a solid substance, much resembling the nature of the females seed, is likely to suck up, by the mediation of the females seed, the male seed incorporated with it, and by incorporation, turned (as it were) into a vapour: in such sort as we have formerly explicated how the body of a scorpion or viper, draweth the poison out of a wound. And after a certain time (Doctor Harvey noted the space of six weeks or two months in does or hinds) these seeds distil again into the womb; and by little and little do clarify in the midst, and a little red speck appeareth in the centre of the bright clearness: as we said before of the egg.  
But we should be too blame to leave our Reader without clearing that difficulty, 
8 From whence it happeneth that the deficiences, or excrescences of the parents body are often seen in their children.  which can not, choose but have sprung up in his thoughts, by occasion of the relations we made at the entrance into this point concerning the cat whose kittlinges were half with tails, and half without: and the woman's daughters at Argires, that had as well as their mother excrescences upon their left thumbs, imitating an other lesser thumb: and the like effects whensover they happen, which they do frequently enough.  
Let him therefore remember, how we have determined that generation is made of the blood, which being dispersed into all the parts of the body to irrigate every one of them; and to convey fitting spirits into them from their source or shop where they are forged; so much of it as is superaboundant to the nourishing of those parts is sent back again to the hart to recover the warmeth and spirits it hath lost by so long a journey. By which perpetual course of a continued circulation, it is evident that the blood in running thus through all the parts of the body must needs receive some particular concoction or impression from every one of them. And by consequence, if there be any specifical virtue in one part which is not in an other, than the blood returning from thence must be endued with the virtue of that part. And the purest part of this blood, being extracted like a quintessence out of the whole mass, is reserved in convenient receptacles or vessels till there be use of it: and is the matter or seed, of which a new animal is to be made; in whom, will appear the effect of all the specifical virtues drawn by the blood in its iterated courses, by its circular motion, through all the several parts of the parents body.  
Whence it followeth, that if any part be wanting in the body whereof this seed is made, or be superaboundant in it; whose virtue is not in the rest of the body, or whose superaboundance is not allayed by the rest of the body; the virtue of that part, can not be in the blood, or will be too strong in the blood, and by consequence, it can not be at all, or it will be, too much in the seed. And the effect proceeding from the seed, that is, the young animal will come into the world savouring of that origine; unless the mother's seed, do supply or temper, what the fathers was defective or superaboundant in; or chose the fathers do correct the errors of the mothers. 
9 The difference between the Author's opinion, and the former one.   
But peradventure the Reader will tell us, that such a specifical virtue can not be gotten by concoction of the blood, or by any pretended impression in it; unless some little particles of the nourished part do remain in the blood, and return back with it according to that maxim of Geber: Quod non ingreditur, non immutat; no body can change an other, unless it enter into it, and mixing itself with it do become one with it. And that so in effect, by this explication we fall back into the opinion which we rejected.  
To this I answer, that the difference is very great between that opinion and ours; as will appear evidently, if you observe the two following assertions of theirs. First, they affirm that a living creature is made merely by the assembling together of similar parts, which were hidden in those bodies from whence they are extracted in generation: whereas we say that blood coming to a part to irrigate it, is by its passage through it, and some little stay in it, and by its frequent returns thither, at the length transmuted into the nature of that part: and thereby the specifical virtues of every part, do grow greater, and are more diffused and extended.  
Secondly, they say that the embroyn is actually form in the seed, though in such little parts as it can not be discerned, until each part have enlarged and increased itself, by drawing unto it from the circumstant bodies more substance of their own nature. But we say, that there is one homogeneal substance; made of the blood, which hath been in all parts of the body; and this is the seed: which containeth not in it, any figure of the animal from which it is refined, or of the animal into which it hath a capacity to be turned (by the addition of other substances) though it have in it the virtues of all the parts it hath often run through.  
By which term of specifike virtues, I hope we have said enough in sundry places of this discourse to keep men from conceiving that we do mean any such unconceivable quality, as modern Philosophers too frequently talk of, when they know not what they say or think, nor can give any account of. But that it is such degrees and such numbers, of rare and dense parts mingled together, as constitute a mixed body of such a temper and nature: which degrees and proportions of rare and dense parts and their mixture together, and in corporating into one homogeneal substance, is the effect resulting from the operations of the exterior agent, that cutteth, imbibeth, kneadeth, and boileth it to such a temper: which exterior agent in this case, is each several part of the animals body, that this juice or blood runneth through; and that hath a particular temper belonging to it, resulting out of such a proportion of rate and dense parts, as we have even now spoken of; and can no more be withheld from communicating its temper to the blood that first soaketh into it, and soon after draineth away again from it (according as other succeeding parts of blood drive it on;) then a mineral channel can choose, but communicate its virtue unto a stream of water that runneth through it, and is continually grating of some of the substance of the mineral earth, and dissolving it into itself.  
But to go on with our intended discourse. 
10 That the hart is imbued with the general specifike virtues of the whole body; whereby is confirmed the doctrine of the two former paragraphes.  The seed, thus imbued with the specifical virtues of all the several parts of the parents body, meeting in a fit receptacle the other partner's seed; and being there duly concocted, becometh first a hart: which hart in this tender beginning of a new animal containeth the several virtues of all the parts that afterwards will grow out of it, and be in the future animal; in the same manner as the hart of a complete animal containeth in it the specifike virtues of all the several parts of its own body, by reason of the bloods continual resorting to it in a circle from all par●es of its body, and its being nourished by that juice to supply the continual consumption which the extreme heat of it must needs continually occasion in its own substance; whereby the hart becometh in a manner the compendium or abridgement of the whole animal.  
Now this hart in the growing Embryon, being of the nature of fire▪ as on the one side it streameth out its hot parts; so on the other, it sucketh oil or fuel to nourish itself out of the adjacent moist parts▪ which matter aggregated unto it, being sent abroad together with the other hot parts that steam from it; both of them together, do stay and settle as soon as they are out of the reach of that violent heat that would not permit them to thicken or to rest. And there they grow into such a substance as is capable to be made of such a mixture, and are linked to the hart by some of those strings that steam out from it (for those steames do likewise harden, as we showed more particularly when we discoursed of the tender stalks of plants) and in a word, this becometh some other part of the animal. Which thus increaseth by order, one part being made after an other, until the whole living creature be completely framed.  
So that now you see; how mainly their opinion differeth from ours; since they say that there is actually in the seed, a complete living creature: for what else is a living creature, but bones in such parts, nerves in such others, blood and humours contained in such and such places, all, as in a living creature? All which they say. But we make the seed to be nothing else, but one mixed body, of one homogeneal nature throughout; consisting of such a multiplicity of rare and dense parts; so balanced and proportioned, in number and in magnitude of those parts; which are evenly shuffled, and alike mingled in every little parcel of the whole substance: in such sort, that the operation of nature upon this seed, may in a long time and with a dew process, bring out such figures, situation, and qualities, (as fluidity, consistence, dryness, and the like) which by much mixtion and consequent alteration, may in the end become such as constitute a living creature of such a kind. And thus it appeareth, that although other substances, and liquours, and steames are from time to time mingled with the seed, and then with the hart, and afterwards with the other parts, as they grow on and increase; yet the main virtue of the ensuing animal, is first in the seed and afterwards in the hart.  
Whence the reason is evident, why both defects and excrescences, do pass sometimes from the parents to the children; to wit, when nothing supplieth the defect or correcteth the exorbitancy. Rather after this which we have said, the difficulty will appear greater, in that such accidents are not always hereditary from the parents; but happen only now and then, some rare times. But the same grounds we have laid will likewise solve this objection; for seeing that the hart of the animal, from whence the seed receiveth its proper nature (as we have declared) is impregnated with the specifike virtue of each several part of the body; it can not be doubted but that the hart will supply for any defect happened in any part, after it hath been imbued with that virtue, and is grown to a firmness, and vigorous consistence with that virtue moulded, and deeply imbibed into the very substance of it. And although the hart should be tincted from its first origine with an undew virtue from some part (as it seemeth to have been in the mother of those daugthers that had two thumbs upon one hand:) yet it is not necessary that all the offspring of that parent should be form after that model; for the other partner's seed may be more efficacious, and predominate in the geniture, over the faulty seed of the other parent; and than it will supply for, and correct, the others deviation from the general rule of nature. Which seemeth to be the case of that woman's male children; for in them, the father's seed being strongest, all their fingers imitated the regularity of their fathers: whereas the daughters (whose sex implieth that the father's seed was less active) carried upon some of theirs, the resemblance of their mother's irregularity.  
And in confirmation of this doctrine, we daily see that the children of parents, who have any of their noble parts much and long distempered, whereby there must be a great distemper in the blood (which is made and concocted by their assistance) do seldom fail of having strong inclinations to the distempers and diseases that either of their parents were violently subject unto. Scarce any father or mother dyeth of the consumption of the lungs, but their children inherit that disease in some measure: the like is of the stone; the like of the gout; the like of diseases of the brain, and of sundry others; when they infested the parents with any notable eminency. For the blood coming continually to the hart from such ill affected parts by its circulation through the whole body must needs in process of time alter, and change the temper of the hart: and then; both the hart giveth a tainted impression to the blood that must be boiled into seed; and the parts themselves do communicate their debilities, and distempers unto it: so that it is no wonder, if the seed do partake of such depraved qualities; since it is a maxim among Physicians, that subsequent concoctions, can never amend or repair the faults of the precedent ones.  
Having waded thus far into this matter; and all experience agreeing that the whole animal is not form at once: 
11 That the hart is the first part generated in a living creature.  I conceive there can be no great difficulty in determining what part of it is first generated: which we have already said to be the hart; but peradventure the reader may expect some more particular and immediate proof of it. It is evident that all the motions and changes, which we have observed in the egg and in the do, do proceed from heat: and it is as certain that heat is greatest in the centre of it; from whence it disperseth itself to less and less. It must then necessarily follow, that the part in which heat doth most abound; and which is the interior fountain of it, from whence (as from a stock of their own) all the other parts derive theirs; must be form first and th● others successively after it, according as they partake more or less, of this heat; which is the Architect that mouldeth and frameth them all. Undoubtedly this can be none other, but the hart: whose motion and manner of working, evidently appeareth in the twinkling of the first red spot (which is the first change) in the egg, and in the first matter of other living creatures. Yet I do not intend to say, that the hart is perfectly framed, and completely made up, with all its parts and instruments, before any other part be begun to be made: but only the most virtuous part; and as it were the marrow of it; which serveth as a shop or a hot forge, to mould spirits in: from whence they are dispersed abroad to form and nourish other parts that stand in need of them to that effect.  
The shootings or little red strings that stream out from it, must surely be arteries; through which, the blood issuing from the hart, and there made and imbued with the nature of the seed, doth run; till encountering with fit matter, it engrosseth itself into brain, liver, lights etc. From the brain chiefly groweth the marrow, and by consequent the bones containing it, (which seem to be originally, but the outward part of the marrow, baked and hardened into a strong crust by the great heat that is kept in:) as also the sinews; which are the next principal bodies of strength, after the bones. The marrow being very hot, drieth the bones; and yet with its actual moisture, it humecteth and nourisheth them too, in some sort. The spirits that are sent from the brain, do the like to the sinews. And lastly; the arteries and veins by their blood to cherish and bedew the flesh. And thus, the whole living creature is begun, framed, and made up.   

THE FIVE AND TWENTIETH CHAPTER▪ How a Plant or Animal cometh to that figure it hath.  

1 That the figure of an Animal is produced by ordinary secō● causes, as well as any other corporeal effect.  But before we go any further, and search into the operations of this animal, a wonderful effect calleth our consideration unto it: which is how a plant or animal, cometh by the figure it hath, both in the whole and in every part of it? Aristotle after he had beaten his thoughts as far as he could upon this question, pronunced that this effect could not possibly be wrought by the virtue of the first qualites; but that it sprung from a more divine origine. And most of the contemplators of nature since him, do seem to agree that no cause can be rendered of it; but that it is to be referred merely to the specifical nature of the thing. Neither do we intend to derogate from either of these causes; since that both divine providence is eminently shown in contriving all circumstances necessary for this work; and likewise the first temperament that is in the seed, must needs be the principal immediate cause of this admirable effect.  
This latter then being supposed▪ our labour and endeavour will be, to unfold (as far as so weak and dim eyes can reach) the excellency and exactness of God's providence, which can not be enough adored, when it is reflected upon, and marked in the apt laying of adequate causes to produce such a figure out of such a mixture first laid. From them so artificially ranged, we shall see this miracle of nature to proceed; and not from an immediate working of God or nature without convenient and ordinary instruments to mediate and effect this configuration, through the force and virtue of their own particular natures. Such a necessity to interest the chief workman at every turn, in particular effects, would argue him of want of skill and providence, in the first laying of the foundations of his designed machine: he were an improvident clockemaker, that should have cast his work so, as when it were wound up and going, it would require the master's hand at every hour to make the hammer strike upon the bell. Let us not then too familiarly, and irreverently engage the Almighty Architect his immediate handy work in every particular effect of nature; Tali non est dignus vindice nodus.  
But let us take principles within our own kenning; 
2 That the several figures of bodies proceed from a defect in one of the three dimensions, caused by the concurrence of accidental causes.  and consider how a body hath of its own nature three dimensions, (as Mathematicians use to demonstrate:) and that the variety which we see of figures in bodies, proceedeth out of the defect of some of these dimensions in proportion to the rest. As for example; that a thing be in the form of a square tablette; is, for that the cause which gave it length and breadth, could not also give it thickness in the same proportion: for had it been able to give profundity as well as the other two, it had made a cube instead of a tablette. In like manner, the form of a lamine, or very long square is occasioned by some accident which hindereth the cause from giving breadth and thickness proportionable to the length. And so, other figures are made, by reason that their causes are somewayes bound to give more of some dimension to one part then to an other.  
As for example; when water falleth out of the sky, it hath all the little corners or extancies of its body grated of by the air as it rouleth and tumbleth down in it; so that it becometh round; and continueth in that form, until that settling upon some flat body, as grass or a leaf, it receiveth a little plainness, to the proportion of its weight mastering the continuity of it. And therefore, if the drop be great upon that plain body, it seemeth to be half a sphere, or some less portion of one: but if it be a little drop than the flat part of it (which is that next unto the grass) is very little and undiscernible▪ because it hath not weight enough to press it much and spread it broad upon the grass; and so the whole, seemeth in a manner to be a sphere: but if the extern causes had pressed upon this drop, only broadwayes and thickewayes (as when a turner maketh a round pillar of a square one) then it would have proved a cylinder, nothing working upon it to grate off any of its length, but only the corners of the breadth and thickness of it.  
And thus you see, how the fundamental figures (upon which all the rest are grounded) are contrived by nature; not by the work of any particular Agent that immediately imprinteth a determinate figure into a particular body, as though it wrought it there at once, according to a foreconceived design or intelligent aim of producing such a figure in such a body: but by the concurrence of several accidental causes, that do all of them join in bringing the body they file and work upon, into such a shape.  
Only we had like to have forgotten the reason and cause of the concave figure in some parts of plants: which in the ordinary course of nature we shall find to grow from hence; that a round outside being filled with some liquor which maketh it grow higher and higher, it happeneth that the succeeding causes do contract this liquor, and do harden the outside: and then, of necessity there must be a hollow cylinder remaining in lieu of the juice which before did fill it. As we see every day in corn, and in reeds, and in canes, and in the stalks of many herbs: which whilst they are tender and in their first groweth, are full of juice; and become afterwards hollow and dry.  

3 The former doctrine is confirmed by several instances.  But because this discourse, may peradventure seem too much in common: it will not be amiss to apply it to some particulars that seem● very strange. And first, let us examine how the rocking of concrete ivices (which seemeth to be such an admirable mystery of nature) is performed. Alum falleth down in lumps, saltpetre in long ycickles, and common salt in squares; and this, not once, or sometimes now and then; but always constantly in the same order.  
The reason of these effects will easily be reduced out of what we have said▪ for if all three be dissolved in the same water, alum being the grossest falleth first and fastest: and being of an unctuous nature, the first part which falleth doth not harden, till the second cometh to it; whereby this second sticketh to the first and crusheth it down; and this is served in the same manner by the third; and so goeth on, one part squeezing an other, till what is undermost grow hard enough to resist the weight of new falling parts; or rather till no more do fall, but the liquor they were dissolved in, is delivered of them all; and then they harden in that figure they were compressed into.  
As for salt, which descendeth in the second place: that swimmeth first upon the water; and there, getteth its figure; which must be equally long and broad, because the water is indifferent to those two positions; but its thickness is not equal to its other two dimensions, by reason that before it can attain to that thickness, it groweth too heavy to swim any longer; and after it is increased to a certain bulk, the weight of it carrieth it down to the bottom of the water, and consequently it can increase no more: for it increaseth by the joining of little parts unto it as it swimmeth on the top of the water.  
The saltpetre falleth last: which being more difficult to be figured then the other two, because it is more dry then either of them (as consisting chiefly of earthy and of fiery parts,) is not equally increased, neither in all three, nor in two dimensions, but hath its length exceeding both its breadth and thickness: and its lightness, maketh it fall last, because it requireth least water to sustain it.  
To give the causes of the figures of divers mixtes, and particularly of some precious stones, (which seem to be cast by nature in exactest moulds) would oblige us to enter into the particular manner of their generation: which were exceeding hard, if not impossible, for us to do, by reason that Authors have not left us the circumstances upon which we might ground our judgement concerning them, so particularly described as were necessary; nor ourselves have met with the commodity of making such experiences, and of searching so into their beds as were requisite, to determine solidely the reasons of them. And indeed I conceive that oftentimes the relations which others have recorded of their generation, would rather misseleade than assist us: since it is very familiar in many men, to magnify the exactenesse of nature in framing effects they fancy to themselves, when to make their wonder appear more just; they will not fail to set of their story, with all advantageous circumstances, and help out what wanteth a little or cometh but near the mark.  
But to come closer to our purpose; that is, to the figures of living things; 
4 The same doctrine applied to Plants.  we see that roots in the earth, are all of them figured almost in the same fashion: for the heat residing in the midst of them, pusheth every way, and thereupon, some of them do become round, but others more long than round, according to the temper of the ground, or to the season of the year, or to the weather that happeneth: and this, not only in divers kinds of roots, but euen in several of the same kind. That part of the plant which mounteth upwardly, is for the most part round and long; the cause whereof is evident, for the juice which is in the middle of it working upwardly (because the hardness of the bark will not let it out at the sides) and coming in more and more abundance (for the reasons we have above delivered) increaseth that part equally every way but upwardly; and therefore, it must be equally thick and broad, and consequently round: but the length will exceed either of the other dimensions; because the juice is driven up with a greater force and in more quantity than it is to the sides. Yet the broadness and thickness are not so exactly uniform, but that they exceed a little more at the bottom then at the top; which is occasioned partly by the contracting of the juice into a narrower circuit the further it is from the source; and partly by reason of the branches; which shooting forth, do convey away a great part of the juice from the main stock.  
Now if we consider the matter well; 
5 The same doctrine declared in leaves of trees.  we shall find, that what is done in the whole tree the very same is likewise done in every little leaf of it; for a leaf consisteth of little branches shooting out from one greater branch, which is in the middle: and again, other lesser branches are derived from those second branches: and so still lesser and lesser, till they wove themselves into a close work, as thick as that which we see women use to fill up with silk or cruel, when in tenteworke they embroader leaves or flowers upon cannevas: and this again; is covered and as it were glued over, by the humour which sticking to these little thriddes, stoppeth up every little vacuity, and by the air is hardened into such a skin as we see a leaf consisteth of.  
And thus it appeareth how an account may be given of the figure of the leaves, as well as of the figure of the main body of the whole tree: the little branches of the leaf, being proportionate in figure to the branches of the tree itself (so that each leaf seemeth to be the tree in little;) and the figure of the leaf depending of the course of these little branches, so that if the greatest branch of the tree be much longer than the others, the leaf will be a long one: but if the lesser branches spread broadwayes; the leaf will likewise be a broad one; so far, as even to be notched at the outsides, round about it, in great or little notches, according to the proportion of the trees branches. These leaves, when they first break out, are folded inwardly, in such sort as the smallness and roundness of the passage in the wood through which they issue, constraineth them to be; where nevertheless the dryness of their parts, keep them asunder; so that one leaf doth not incorporate itself with an other: but as soon as they feel the heat of the sun (after they are broken out into liberty) their tender branches by little and little grow more strait; the concave parts of them drawing more towards the sun, because he extracteth and sucketh their moisture from their hinder parts into their former, that are more exposed to his beams; and thereby the hinder parts are contracted and grow shorter, and those before grow longer. Which if it be in excess, maketh the leaf become crooked the contrary way; as we see in divers flowers, and in sundry leaves during the summer's heat: witness, the ivy, roses full blown, tulipes, and all flowers in form of bells; and indeed all kinds of flowers whatsoever; when the sun hath wrought upon them to that degree we speak of, and that their joining to their stalk, and the next parts thereunto, allow them scope to obey the impulse of those outward causes. And when any do vary from this rule; we shall as plainly see other manifest causes producing those different effects, as now we do these working in this manner.  
As for fruits though we see that when they grow at liberty upon the tree, they seem to have a particular figure allotted them by nature: yet in truth, it is the ordered series of natural causes and not an intrinsecall formative virtue which breedeth this effect, as is evident by the great power which art hath to change their figures at pleasure; whereof you may see examples enough in Campanella; and every curious gardener can furnish you with store. 
6 The same applied to the bodies of Animals.   
Out of these, and such like principles a man that would make it his study with less trouble or tediousness, than that patient contemplator of one of nature's little works (the Bees) whom we mentioned a while agone, might without all doubt trace the causes in the growing of an Embryon, till he discovered the reason of every bones figure; of every notable hole or passage that is in them; of the ligaments by which they are tied together; of the membranes that cover them; and of all the other parts of the body. How, out of a first mass, that was soft, and had no such parts distinguishable in it, every one of them came to be form, by contracting that mass in one place, by dilating it in an other, by moistening it in a third, by drying it here, hardening it there; 
Vt his exordia primis,  
Omnia, & ipse tener hominis concreverit orbis.  till in the end this admirable machine and frame of man's body, was composed and fashioned up by such little and almost insensible steps and degrees. Which when it is looked upon in bulk, and entirely form, seemeth impossible to have been made, and to have sprung merely out of these principle, without an Intelligence immediately working and moulding it at every turn, from the beginning to the end.  
But withal, 
7 In what sense the Author doth admit of Vis formatrix.  we can not choose but break out into an extasye of admiration and hymns of praise (as great Galen did upon the like occasion) when we reverently consider the infinite wisdom; and deep farrelooking providence of the alseeing Creator and orderer of the world, in so punctually adapting such a multitude and swarm of causes to produce by so long a progress so wonderful an effect: in the whole course of which, if any one, the very lest of them all, went never so little awry, the whole fabric would be discomposed and changed from the nature it is designed unto.  
Out of our short survey of which (answerable to our weak talents, and slender experience) I persuade myself it appeareth evident enough, that to effect this work of generation, there needeth not be supposed a forming virtue or Vis formatrix of an unknown power and operation, as those that consider things suddenly and but in gross, do use to put. Yet, in discourse, for conveniency and shortness of expression we shall not quite banish that term from all commerce with us; so that what we mean by it, be rightly understood; which is, the complexe, assemblement, or chain of all the causes, that concur to produce this effect; as they are set on foot, to this end by the great Architect and Moderator of them, God almighty, whose instrument nature is: that is, the same thing, or rather the same things so ordered as we have declared, but expressed and comprised under an other name.   

THE SIX AND TWENTIETH CHAPTER. How motion beginneth in living creatures. And of the motion of the hart; circulation of the blood; Nutrition; Augmentation; and corruption or death.  

1 Fromwhence doth proceed the primary motion and growth in plants.  But we must not take our leave of this subject, until we have examined, how motion beginneth in living things; as well plants as sensitive creatures. We can readily pitch upon the part we are to make our observations in, for retriuing the origine of this primary motion: for having concluded that the roots of plants, and the hearts of animals are the parts of them, which are first made, and from which the forming virtue is derived to all the rest, it were unreasonable to seek for their first motion any where else.  
But in what manner, and by what means, doth it begin there? For roots, the difficulty is not great; for the moisture of the earth, pressing upon the seed, and soaking into it; the hot parts of it which were imprisoned in cold and dry ones, are thereby stirred up and set on work: then they mingling themselves with that moisture, do ferment and distend the whole seed; till making it open, and break the skin more juice cometh in: which incorporating itself with the heat, those hot and now moist parts will not be contained in so narrow a room as at the first; but struggling to get out on all sides, and striving to enlarge themselues; they thrust forth little parts: which, if they stay in the earth, do grow white and make the root: but those which ascend, and make their way into the air, being less compressed, and more full of heat and moisture, do turn green: and as fast as they grow up, new moisture coming to the root, is sent up through the pores of it: and this faileth not, until the heat of the root itself doth fail. For it being the nature of heat to rarify and elevate, there must of necessity be caused in the earth a kind of sucking in of moisture into the root from the next parts unto it to fill those capacities which the dilating heat hath made that else would be empty, and to supply the rooms of those which the heat continually sendeth upwardly: for the moisture of the root, hath a continuity with that in the earth, and therefore, they adhere together (as in a pump; or rather, as in filtration) and do follow one an other when any of them are in motion, and still the next must needs come in, and fill the room, where it findeth an empty space immediate to it. The, like of which happeneth to the air when we breath; for our lungs being like a bladder; when we open them the air must needs come in, to fill that capacity which else would be empty: and when we shut them again; as in a pair of bellows we put it out.  
This may suffice, 
2 Monsieur des Cartes his opinion touching the motion of the hart.  concerning the primary motion of roots: but in that of the hart; we shall find the matter not altogether so plain Monsieur des Cartes following herein the steps of the learned and ingenious Harvey, who hath invented and teacheth that curious and excellent doctrine of the circulation of the blood; (as indeed, what secret of nature can be hidden from so sharp a wit, when he applieth himself to penetrate into the bottom of it:) explicateth the matter much after this sort. That the hart, within, in the substance of it, is like a hollow caverne; in whose bottom, were an hot stone; on which should drop as much liquor as the fiery stone could blow into smoke; and this smoke or steam, should be more than the cave could contain; wherefore it must break out; which to do, it presseth on all sides to get an issue or door to let it out: it findeth of two sorts; but only, one kind of them, will serve it for this purpose; for the one sort of these doors, openeth inwardly, the other, outwardly: which is the cause that the more it striveth to get out, the faster it shutteth the doors of the first kind; but by the same means, it beateth back the other doors; and so getteth out.  
Now when it is gone quite out of this caverne; and consequently leaveth it to its natural disposition; whereas before it violently stretched it out; and by doing so kept close the doors that open inwardes: then all the parts of it begin to slacken; and those doors give way unto new liquor to drop in anew; which the heat in the bottom of the hart, rarifyeth again into smoke as before. And thus he conceiveth the motion of the hart to be made: taking the substance of it to be (as I may say) like unto limber leather, which upon the filling of it with blood and steam, openeth and dilateth itself; and at the going of it out, it shrinketh together like a bladder.  
But I doubt, 
3 The former opinion rejected.  this explication will not go through the difficulty, for first both Galen and Doctor Harvey do sh●w, that as soon as the blood is come into the hart, it contracteth itself: which agreeth not with Monsieur des Cartes his supposition; for in his doctrine, there appeareth no cause why it should contract itself when it is full: but chose, it should go on dilating itself, until enough of the blood which droppeth into the hart, were converted into steam, to force the doors open▪ that so, it may gain an issue thence, and a passage into the body.  
Next; Monsieur des Cartes supposeth that the substance of the hart is like a bladder, which hath no motion of itself; but openeth and shutteth, according as what is within it, stretcheth it out, or permitteth it to shrink and fall together again. Whereas, Doctor Harvey proveth that when it is full, it compresseth itself by a quick and strong motion, to expel that which is in it: and that when it is empty, it returneth to its natural dilatation, figure and situation, by the ceasing of that agents working, which caused its motion. Whereby it appeareth to be of such a fibrous substance, as hath a proper motion of its own.  
Thirdly; I see not how this motion can be proportional: for the hart must needs open and be dilated, much faster than it can be shut and shrink together; there being no cause put to shut it and to bring it to its utmost period of shrinking; other than the going out of the vapour, whereby it becometh empty: which vapour not being forced by any thing but by its own inclination; it may peradventure, at the first when there is abundance of it, swell and stretch the hart forcibly out; but after the first impulse and breach of some part of it out of the caverne that enclosed it; there is nothing to drive out the rest, which must therefore steam very leisurely out.  
Fourthly; what should hinder the blood from coming in, before the hart be quite empty and shrunk to its lowest pitch? For as soon as the vapour yieldeth within, new blood may fall in from without; and so keep the hart continually dilated, without ever suffering it to be perfectly and completely shut.  
Fifthly; the hart of a viper laid upon a plate in a warm place will beat 24 hours; and much longer, if it be carefully taken out of its body, and the weather be warm and moist: and it is clear, that this is without succession of blood to cause the pulses of it. Likewise, the severed members of living creatures, will stir for some time after they are parted from their bodies: and in them, we can suspect no such cause of motion.  
Sixthly; in Monsieur des Cartes his opinion, the hart should be hardest when it is fullest; and the eruption of the steam out of it, should be strongest at the beginning: whereas experience showeth, that it is softest when it is at the point of being full; and hardest when it is at the point of being empty; and the motion strongest, towards the end.  
Seventhly; in Monsieur des Cartes his way, there is no agent or force strong enough to make blood gush out of the hart: for if it be the steam only that openeth the doors, nothing but it will go out; and the blood will still remain behind, since it lieth lower than the steam, and further from the issue that letteth it out: but Doctor Harvey findeth by experience (and teacheth how to make this experience) that when a wound is made in the hart, blood will gush out by spurtes at every shooting of the hart.  
And lastly; if Monsieur des Cartes his supposition were true, the arteries would receive nothing but steames; whereas it is evident that the chief filler of them is blood.  

4 The Author's opinion concerning the motion of the hart.  Therefore we must inquire after an other cause of this primary motion of a sensitive creature, in the beat of its hart. Wherein, we shall not be obliged to look far; for seeing we find this motion and these pulsations, in the hart when it is separated from the body: we may boldly and safely conclude, that it must of necessity be caused by something that is within the hart itself. And what can that be else, but heat or spirits imprisoned in a tough viscous blood; which it can not so presently break through to get out; and yet can stir within it, and lift it up?  
The like of which motion may be observed, in the heaving up, and sinking down again of loose mould thrown into a pit, into which much ordure hath been emptied. The same cause, of heat in the earth▪ maketh mountains and sands to be cast up in the very sea: so, in frying, when the pan is full of meat, the bubbles rise and fall at the edges: treacle, and such strong compounded substances; whiles they ferment, do lift themselves up, and sink down again, after the same manner as the viper's hart doth: as also do the bubbles of barm, and must of wine: and short ends of lute strings baked in a ivicy pie, will at the opening of it move in such sort, as they who are ignorant of the feat will think there are maggots in it: and a hot loaf, in which quickesyluer is enclosed, will not only move thus▪ but will also leap about, and skip from one place to an other, like the head or limb of an animal (very full of spirits) newly cut off from its whole body.  
And that this is the true cause of the heart's motion, appeareth evidently. First, because this virtue of moving, is in every part of the hart; as you will plainly see if you cut into several pieces a hart, that conserveth its motion long after it is out of the animals belly▪ for every piece will move; as Doctor Harvey assureth us by experience, and I myself have often seen, upon occasion of making the great antidote, in which vipers hearts is a principal ingredient. Secondly the same is seen in the auricles and the rest of the hart; whose motions are several; though so near together, that they can hardly be distinguished. Thirdly; Doctor Harvey seemeth to affirm that the blood which is in the ears of the hart, hath such a motion of itself, precedent to the motion of the ears it is in: and that this virtue remaineth in it for a little space after the ears are dead. Fourthly; in touching a hart which had newly left moving, with his fingar wetted with warm spittle, it began to move again, as testifying that heat and moisture, made this motion. Fifthly; if you touch the viper's hart over with vinegar, with spirit of wine, with sharp white wine, or with any piercing liquor; it presently dyeth: for the acuteness of such substances, pierceth through the viscous blood, and maketh way for the heat to get out.  
But this first mover of an animal, must have something from without to stir it up; else, the heat would lie in it, as if it were dead; and in time would become absolutely so. In eggs, you see this exterior mover, is the warmeth of the hen hatching them. And in Embryos; it is the warmeth of the mother's womb. But when in either of them, the hart is completely form, and is enclosed in the breast; much heat is likewise enclosed there, in all the parts near about the hart; partly made by the hart itself; and partly caused by the outward heat, which helped also to make that in the hart: and then although the warmeth of the hen or of the mother's womb, do forsake the hart; yet this stirreth up the native h●●te within the hart and keepeth it in motion, and maketh it feed still upon now fuel, as fast as that which it worketh upon decayeth.  

5 The motion of the hart dependeth originally of its fibers irrigated by blood.  But to express more particularly how this motion is effected; we are to note, that the hart hath in the ventricles of it, three sorts of fibers: the first go long ways or are strait ones, on the sides of the ventricles from the thick basis of the hart, towards the little tip or cone of it: the second, go cross or roundwayes about the ventricles within the hart: and the third, are transuersall or thwart ones. Next we are to remember, that the hart is fixed to the body by its base; and hangeth loose at the cone. Now then, the fibers being of the nature of such things as will swell and grow thicker by being moistened, and consequently shrink up in length and grow shorter, in proportion to their swelling thicker (as you may observe in a loosewrought hempen rope) it must of necessity follow, that when the blood falleth into the hart (which is of a kind of spungye substance) the fibers being therewith moistened, they will presently swell in roundness and shrink in length.  
Next we are to note, that there is a double motion in the hart: the one of opening, which is called, Diastole; the other, of shutting, which is termed Systole. And although Doctor Harvey seemeth to allow the opening of the hart to be no motion; but rather a relenting from motion; nevertheless (me thinketh) it is manifest, that it is not only a complete motion, but in a manner the greater motion of the two, though indeed the less sensible; because it is performed by little and little; for in it the hart is drawn by violence from its natural position; which must be (as it is of all heavy things) that by which it approacheth most to the centre of gravity; and such a position we see it gaineth by the shutting of it.  
Now to declare how both these motions are effected, we are to consider how at the end of the systole the hart is voided and cleansed of all the blood that was in it; whence it followeth, that the weight of the blood which is in the auricles, pressing upon the Valuulas or doors that open inwardes, maketh its way by little and little into the ventricles of the hart where it must necessarily swell the fibers; and they being swelled must needs draw the hart into a roundish and capacious figure; which the more it is done, the more blood cometh in; and with greater violence. The following effect of which must be, that the weight of the blood joined to the weight of the hart itself, and particularly of the conus or tip (which is more solid and heavy in proportion to its quantity, than the rest of the hart) must necessarily set the hart into the natural motion of descending according to its gravity: the which consequently, is performed by a lively jerk, whereby it cometh to pass that the tip of our hart, doth as it were spring up towards our breast: and the blood is spurted out by other Voluulae (that open outwards) which are aptly disposed to be opened upon such a motion, and do convey it to the arteries.  
In the course of which motion, we may note how the figure of our hart contributeth to its springing up towards our breast; for the line of distance which is between the basis and the tip being longer on that side which is towards the back, then on the other which is towards the breast,; it must happen that when the hart shutteth and straighteneth itself, and thereby extendeth itself to its length, the tip will butt out forward towards the breast.  
Against this doctrine of the motion, 
6 An objection answered against the former doctrine.  and of the systole and diastole of the hart, it may be objected, that beasts hearts do not hang like a man's hart, strait downwards; but rather horizontally, and therefore this motion of gravity can not have place in them: nevertheless, we are sure they beat, and do open and shut, regularly. Besides, if there were no other cause but this of gravity for the motion of a man's hart, it would follow that one who were set upon his head or hung by his heels, could not have the motion of his hart: which, posture nevertheless, we see men remain in for a pretty while, without any extreme prejudice.  
But these difficulties are easily answered; for whether beasts hearts do lie directly horizontally, or whether, the basis be fastened some what higher than the tip reacheth, and so maketh their hart hang inclining downwards; still the motion of gravity hath its effect in them. As we may perceive in the hart of a viper lying upon a plate, and in any other thing that of itself swelleth up, and strait again sinketh down: in which we can not doubt, but that the gravity fight against the heat, maketh the elevated parts to fall, as the heat maketh them rise.  
And as for the latter; it is evident that men can not stay long in that posture without violent accidents; and in any little while we see that the blood cometh into their face and other parts which naturally are situated higher; but by this position become lower than the hart: and much time is not required, to have them quite disordered and suffocated; the blood passing through the hart with too much quickness, and not receiving due concoction there; and falling thence in too great abundance into places that can not with conveniency entertain it.  
But you will insist, and ask, whether in that posture the hart doth move or no, and how? And to speak by guess in a thing I have not yet made experiences enough to be throughly informed in; I conceive without any great scruple that it doth move. And that it happeneth thus; that the hart hanging somewhat loose, must needs tumble over, and the tip of it lean downwards some way or other; and so lie in part like the hart of a beast; though not so conveniently accommodated: and then the heat which maketh the viscous blood that is in the substance of the hart to ferment will not fail of raising it up: whereupon, the weight of that side of the hart, that is lifted up, will presently press it down again. And thus, by the alternative operations of these causes, the hart will be made to open, and shut itself, as much as is necessary for admitting and thrusting out, that little and disorderly coming blood, which maketh its course through it, for that little space wherein the man continueth in that position.  

7 The circulation of the blood, and other effects that follow the motion of the hart.  Now from these effects wrought in the hart by the moistening of the fibers; two other effects do proceed: the one is, that the blood is pushed out of every corner of the hart with an impetuousness or velocity. The other is, that by this motion the spirits, which are in the ventricles of the hart, and in the blood that is even then heated there, are more and deeper pressed into the substance of the hart; so that you see, the hart imbibeth fresh vigour, and is strengthened with new spirits, whiles it seemeth to reject that which should strengthen it.  
Again, two other effects follow this violent eiection of the blood out of the hart. The one is, that for the present, the hart is entirely cleansed of all remainders of blood none being permitted to fall back to annoy it. The other is, that the hart finding itself dry; the fibers do relent presently into their natural position and extension, and the valuulae that open inwardes, fall flat to the sides of the ventricles, and consequently, new blood droppeth in. So that in conclusion, we see, the motion of the hart, dependeth originally of its fibers irrigated by the blood: and not from the force of the vapour as Monsieur des Cartes supposeth.  
This motion of the hart, driveth the blood (which is warmed and spiritualised, by being boiled in this furnace) through due passages into the arteries, which from them runneth into the veins, and is a main cause of making and nourishing other parts; as the liver, the lungs, the brains, and whatsoever else dependeth of those veins and arteries through which the blood goeth. Which being ever freshly heated, and receiving the tincture of the heart's nature by passing through the hart; wheresoever it stayeth and curdleth, it groweth into a substance of a nature conformable to the hart, though every one of such substances, be of exceeding different conditions in themselves, the very grossest excrements, not being excluded from some participation of that nature.  
But if you desire to follow the blood all along every step, in its progress from the hart round about the body, till it return back again to its centre, Doctor Harvey who most acutely teacheth this doctrine, must be your guide. He will show you how it issueth from the hart by the arteries; from whence it goeth on warming the flesh, until it arrive some of the extremities of the body: and by than it is grown so cool (by long absence from the fountain of its heat; and by evaporating its own stock of spirits, without any new supply) that it hath need of being warmed a new; it findeth itself returned back again to the heart, and is there heated again, which return is made by the veins, as its going forwardly, is performed only by the arteries.  
And were it not for this continual circulation of the blood and this new heating it in its proper cauldron, the hart; it could not be avoided, but that the extreme parts of the body would soon grow cold and die. For flesh, being of itself of a cold nature (as is apparent in dead flesh) and being kept warm, merely by the blood that bedeweth it; and the blood likewise being of a nature that soon groweth cold, and congealeath, unless it be preserved in due temper by actual heat working upon it: how can we imagine that they two singly, without any other assistance, should keep one an other warm (especially in those parts, that are far distant from the hart) by only being together? Surely, we must allow the blood, (which is a substance fit for motion) to have recourse back to the hart, (where only it can be supplied with new heat and spirits) and from thence be driven out again by its pulses or strokes; which are his shuttinge. And as fast as it flieth out, (like a reeking thick steam, which riseth from perfumed water falling upon a heated pan) that which is next before it, must fly yet further on, to make way for it; and new arterial blood still issuing forth at every pulse, it must still drive on what issued thence the last precedent pulse, and that part must press on what is next before it. And thus it fareth with the whole mass of blood; which having no other course, but in the body, it must at length run round, and by new vessels (which are the veins) return back unto the place from whence it issued first: and by that time it cometh thither, it is grown cool and thick, and needeth a vigorous restauration of spirits and a new rarifying; that then, it may warm the flesh, it passeth again through: without which it would suddenly grow stone cold; as is manifest, if by tying or cutting the arteries, you intercept the blood, which is to nourish any part: for then that part, groweth presently cold and benumbed.  
But referring the particulars of this doctrine unto Doctor Harvey (who hath both invented and perfected it) our task in hand calleth upon us to declare in common the residue of motions that all living creatures agree in. 
8 Of Nutrition.  How generation is performed, we have determined in the past discourse. Our next consideration than ought to be of Nutrition and Augmentation. Between which there is very little difference in the nature of their action; and the difference of their names is grounded more upon the different result in the period of them, then upon the thing itself: as will by and by appear. Thus then is the progress of this matter: as soon as a living creature is form, it endeavoureth strait to augment itself; and employeth itself only about that; the parts of it being yet too young and tender▪ to perform the other functions which nature hath produced them for. That is to say; the living creature, at its first production, is in such a state and condition as it is able to do nothing else, but (by means of the great heat that is in it) to turn into its own substance the abundance of moisture that overfloweth it.  
They who are curious in this matter, do tell us that the performance of this work consisteth in five actions; which they call, Attraction, Adhesion, Concoction, Assimilation and unition. The nature of attraction, we have already declared when we explicated, how the hart and the root sendeth juice into the other parts of the animal or plant: for they abounding in themselves with inward heat, and besides that, much other circumstant heat working likewise upon them; it can not be otherwise, but that they must needs suck and draw into them, the moisture that is about them.  
As for adhesion, the nature of that is likewise explicated, when we showed, how such parts as are moist, but especially aereal or oily ones (such as are made by the operation of a soft and continual heat) are catching and do easily stick unto any body they happen to touch: and how a little part of moisture between two dry parts, joineth them together. Upon which occasion, it is to be noted that parts of the same kind do join best together: and therefore the powder of glass is used to cement broken glass with all (as we have touched some where above:) and the powder of marble to cement marble with; and so of other bodies: in like manner, Alchemissts find no better expedient to extract a small proportion of silver mixed with a great one of gold, then to put more silver to it; nor any more effectual way to get out the hart, or tincture, or spirits of any thing they distil or make an extract of, then to infuse its own phlegm upon it, and to water it with that. Now whether the reason of this be, that continuity, because it is an unity, must be firmest between parts that are most conformable to one an other, and consequently, are most one among themselves; or whether it be for some other hidden cause, belongeth not to this place to discourse: but in fine so it is. And the adhesion is strongest of such parts as are most conformable to that which needeth increase and nourishment; and that is made up by the other three actions.  
Of which, concoction is nothing else but a thickening of that juice which already sticketh to any part of the animals body, by the good digestion that heat maketh in it. And assimilation, is the effect of concoction: for this juice being used in the same manner, as the first juice was, that made the part, whereunto this is to be joined; it can not choose but become like unto it in substance. And then, there being no other substance between, it is of itself united unto it without any further help. 
9 Of Augmentation.   
Hitherto, this action belongeth to nutrition. But if on the one side, the heat and spirituality of the blood; and on the otherside the due temper and disposition of the part be such, as the blood is greedily sucked into the part, which thereby swelleth to make room for it, and will not let it go away, but turneth it into a like substance as itself is; and in greater quantity than what is consumed and decayeth continually by transpiration: then this action is called likewise augmentation Which Galen explicateth by a sport the boys of jonia used; who were accustomed to fill a bladder with wind; and when they could force no more into it, they would rub the bladder, and after rubbing of it, they found it capable of receiving new breath: and so they would proceed on, until their bladder were as full as by use they knew it could be made. Now (saith he) nature doth the like, by filling our flesh, and other parts with blood; that is to say, it stretcheth the fibers: but she hath over and above a power which the boys had not; namely to make the fibers as strong after they are stretched to their utmost extension, as they were before they were extended: whence it happeneth that she can extend them again, as well as at the first; and this without end, as far as concerneth that part.  
The reason whereof is, because she extendeth them by means of a liquor which is of the same nature, as that whereof they were made at the first: and from thence it followeth, that by concoction that liquor settleth in the parts of the fibers which have most need; and so maketh those parts as great in the length they are extended unto, as they were in their shortness, before they were drawn out. Whereby the whole part of the animal, wherein this happeneth, groweth greater: and the like being done in every part, as well as in any one single one, the whole animal becometh bigger; and is in such sort augmented.  
Out of all which discourse, 
10 Of death and sickness.  we may collect that in the essential composition of living creatures, there may peradventure be a physical possibility for them to continue always without decay; and so, become immortal, even in their bodies, if all hurtful accidents coming from without might be prevented. For seeing that a man, besides the increase which he maketh of himself, can also impart unto his children a virtue, by which they are able to do the like, and to give again unto theirs as much as they received from their fathers: it is clear, that what maketh him die, is no more the want of any radical power in him, to increase or nourish himself; then in fire, it is the want of power to burn, which maketh it go out. But it must be some accidental want, which Galen attributeth chiefly to the dryness of our bones, and sinews etc. as you may in him see more at large; for dryness, with density, alloweth not easy admittance unto moisture: and therefore, it causeth the heat which is in the dry body, either to evaporate or to be extinguished: and want of heat, is that, from whence the failing of life proceedeth: which he thinketh can not be prevented by any art or industry.  
And herein, God hath expressed his great mercy and goodness towards us: for seeing that by the corruption of our own nature, we are so immersed in flesh and blood as we should for ever delight to wallow in their mire without raising our thoughts at any time above that low and brutal condition: he hath engaged us by a happy necessity, to think of and to provide for a nobler and far more excellent state of living that will never change or end.  
In pursuance of which inevitable ordinance; man (as if he were grown weary and out of love with this life; and scorned any term in his farm here, since he can not purchase the fee simple of it) hasteneth on his death by his unwary and rash use of meats, which poison his blood: and then, his infected blood passing through his whole body, must needs in like manner, taint it all at once. For the redress of which mischief, the assistance of Physic is made use of: and that, passing likewise the same way purifieth the blood, and recovereth the corruption occasioned by the peccant humour; or other while gathering it together, it thrusteth and carrieth out that evil guest by the passages contrived by nature to bisburden the body of unprofitable or hurtful superfluities.   

THE SEVEN AND TWENTIETH CHAPTER. Of the motions of sense; and of the sensible qualities in general; and in particular of those which belong to Touch, Taste, and Smelling.  

1 The connexion of the subsequent chapters with the precedent.  Having thus brought on the course of nature as high as living creatures (whole chief specieses or division, is those that have sense) and having declared the operations which are common to the whole tribe of them, which includeth both plants and animals: it is now time we take a particular view of those, whose action, and passion, is the reason why that chief portion of life is termed sensitive; I mean the senses, and the qualities, by which the outward world cometh into the living creature, through his senses. Which when we shall have gone through, we shall scarcely have left any qualities among bodies, to plead for a spiritual manner of being or working; that is, for a self entity, and instantaneous operation: which kind of things and properties, vulgar Philosophy is very earnest to attribute unto ou● senses: with what reason, and upon what ground let us now consider.  

2 Of the senses and sensible qualities in general. And of the end for which they serve.  These qualities are reduced to five several heads; answerable to so many different ways, whereby we receive notice of the bodies that are without us. And accordingly, they constitute a like number of different senses: of every one of which, we will discourse particularly, when we have examined the natures of the qualities that effect them. But now, all the consideration we shall need to have of them, is only this; that it is manifest the organs in us by which sensible qualities do work upon us, are corporeal, and are made of the like ingredients as the rest of our body is: and therefore, must of necessity be liable to suffer evil and to receive good (in such sort as all other bodies do) from those active qualities which make and mar all things within the limits of nature. By which terms of Evil and Good; I mean, those effects that are averse or conformable to the particular nature of any thing: and thereby do tend to the preservation or destruction, of that Individual.  
Now we receiving from our senses, the knowledge that we have of things without us; do give names unto them according to the passions and affections, which those things cause in our senses: which being the same in all mankind (as long as they are considered in common, and that their effects are looked upon in gross) all the world agreeth in one notion and in one name of the same thing; for every man living is affected by it, just as his neighbour is, and as all men else in the world are. As for example; heat or cold worketh the same feeling in every man composed of flesh and blood; and therefore, whosoever should be asked of them, would return the same answer, that they cause such and such effects in his sense, pleasing or displeasing to him, according to their degrees, and as they tend to the good or evil of his whole body.  
But if we descend to particulars, we shall find, that several men of differing constitutions, do frame different notions of the same things, according as they are conformable or disagreeing to their natures: and accordingly they give them different names. As when the same liquor is sweet to some men's taste; which to an others appeareth bitter: one man taketh that for a purfume; which to an other, is an offensive smell: in the Turkish baths; (where there are many degrees of heat in divers rooms, through all which the same person useth to pass, and to stay a while in every one of them, both at his entrance and going out, to season his body by degrees, for the contrary excess he his going unto) that seemeth chilly cold at his return; which appeared melting hot at his going in; as I myself have often made experience in those countries: beauty and loveliness will shine to one man, in the same face, that will give aversion to an other. All which proclaimeth, that the sensible qualities of bodies, are not any positive real thing, consisting in an indivisible, and distinct from the body itself; but are merely the very body, as it affecteth our senses: which to discover how they do it, must be our labour here.  
Let us therefore begin, with considering the difference, that is between sensible and insensible creatures. These latter, do lie exposed the mercy of all outward agents that from time to time (by the continual motion which all things are in) do come within distance of working upon them: and they have no power to remove themselves from what is averse to their nature; nor to approach nearer unto what comforteth it. But the others having within themselves a principle of motion (as we have already declared) whensoever such effects are wrought upon them, as upon the others; they are able, upon their own account and by their own action, to remove themselves from what beginneth to annoy them, and to come nearer unto what they find a beginning of good by.  
These impressions, are made upon those parts of us, which we call the organs of our senses; and by them, do give us seasonable advertissements and knowledges whereby we may govern and order to the best advantage, our little charge of a body, according to the tune or warning of change in the great circumstant body of the world, as far as it may concern ours. Which how it is done, and by what steps it proceedeth, shall be in the following discourse laid open.  
Of this great machine that enuironneth us, we who are but a small parcel, are not immediately concerned in every part of it. It importeth not us, for the conservation of our body, to have knowledge of other parts then such as are within the distance of working upon us: those only within whose sphere of activity we are planted, can offend or advantage us: and of them; some are near us; others, further from us. Those that are next unto us; we discern (according as they are qualifyed) either by our touch, or by our taste, or by our smelling; which three senses, do manifestly appear to consist in a mere gradation of more or less gross; and their operations are leveled to the three Elements that press upon us; earth, water, and air. By our other two senses (our hearing and our seeing) we have notice of things further off: and the agents which work upon them, are of a more refined nature.  

3 Of the sense of touching: and that both it and its qualities are bodies.  But we must treat of them all in particular: and that which we will begin with, shall be the touch, as being the grossest of them, and that which converseth with none, but the most material and massy objects. We see it dealeth with heavy consistent bodies; and judgeth of them by conjunction unto them, and by immediate reception of something from them. And according to the divers impressions they make in it; it distinguisheth them by divers names; which (as we said of the qualities of mixed bodies) are generally reduced to certain pairs; as hot and cold, wet and dry, soft and hard, smooth and rough, thick and thin, and some others of the like nature; which were needless to enumerate, since we pretend not to deliver the science of them, but only to show that they and their actions, are all corporeal.  
And this is sufficiently evident, by mere repeating but their very names; for it is plain, by what we have already said; that they are nothing else but certain affections of quantity, arising out of different degrees of rarity and density compounded together. And it is manifest by experience, that our sense receiveth the very same impressions from them, which an other body doth; for our body, or our sense will be heated by fire; and will also be burned by it, if the heat be too great, as well as wood: it will be constipated by cold water, moistened by humid things, and dried by dry bodies, in the same manner as any other body whatsoever; likewise, it may in such sort as they, be wounded and have its continuity broken by hard things; be pleased and polished, by those that are soft and smooth; be pressed by those that are thick and heavy; and be rubbed by those that are rugged etc.  
So that those masters, who will teach us that the impressions upon sense are made by spiritual or spiritelike things or qualities; which they call intentional specieses, must labour at two works: the one to make it appear that there are in nature such things as they would persuade us; the other to prove that these material actions we speak of are not able to perform those effects, for which the senses are given unto living creatures. And until they have done that, I conceive we should be much too blame to admit such things, as we neither have ground for in reason, nor can understand what they are. And therefore, we must resolve to rest in this belief, which experience breedeth in us: that these bodies work upon our senses no other ways then by a corporeal operation; and that such a one is sufficient for all the effects we see proceed from them: as in the process of this discourse we shall more amply declare.  
The element immediately next to earth in grossness, 
4 Of the taste and its qualities: that they are bodies.  is water. And in it is the exercise of our taste, our mouth being perpetually wet within: by means of which moisture, our tongue receiveth into it, some little parts of the substance which we chew in our teeth, and which passeth over it. You may observe how, if we take any herb or fruit; and having chopped or beaten it small, we them put it into a wooden dish of water and do squeeze it a little; the juice, communicating and mingling itself with; the water, infecteth it with the taste of itself, and remaining a while in the bowl sinketh by little and little into the very pores of the wood: as is manifest, by its retaining a long time after, the taste and smell of that herb. In like manner, nature hath taught us, by chewing our meat, and by turning it into our mouths and pressing it a little (that we may the more easily swallow it) to imbue our spittle with such little parts as easily diffuse themselves in water. And then our spittle being continuate to the moisture, which is within our tongue, (in such sort as we declared of the moisture of the earth, that soaketh into the root of a plant) and particularly in the sinews of it; must of necessity affect those little sensible strings with the qualities which these petty bodies, mixed every where with the moisture, are themselves imbued withal.  
And if you ask what motions or qualities these be: Physicians (unto whom it belongeth most particularly to look into them) will tell you, that some dilate the tongue more, and some less; as if some of these little bodies had an aereal, and others a watery disposition: and these two, they express by the names of sweet and fatty. That some, do contract and draw the tongue together; as choaky and rough things do most; and next to them, crabby and immature sharpness. That some do corrode and pierce the tongue; as salt and sour things. That bitter things do search the outside of it, as if they swept it: and that other things, do as it were prick it; as spices and hot drinks. Now all these are sensible material things; which admit to be explicated clearly, by the varieties of rarity and density concurring to their compositions: and are so proportionable to such material instruments as we can not doubt but that they may be throughly declared by our former principles.  
The next element above water, 
5 That the smell and its qualities are real bodies.  is air; which our nostrils, being our instrument to suck in, we can not doubt but what affecteth a man by his nose, must come unto him in breath or air. And as humidity receiveth grosser and weightier parts; so those which are more subtle and light, do rise up into the air: and these we know attain unto this lightness, by the commixtion of fire, which is hot and dry. And therefore, we can not doubt, but that the nature of smell is more or less tending to heat and drought: which is the cause that their commixtion with the brain, proveth comfortable unto it; because of its own disposition it is usually subject to be too moist and too cold.  
Whether there be any immediate instrument of this sense, to receive the passion or effect, which by it, other bodies make upon us; or whether the sense itself, be nothing but a passage of these exhalations and little bodies unto the brain, fitly accommodated to discern, what is good, or hurtful for it, and accordingly to move the body to admit or reject them; importeth not us at present to determine: let Physicians and Anatomists resolve that question; whiles it sufficeth us to understand, that the operations of bodies by odours upon our sense, are performed by real and solid parts of the whole substance; which are truly material, though very little, bodies; and not by imaginary qualities.  

6 Of the conformity betwixt the two senses of smelling and tasting.  And those bodies, when they proceed out of the same things that yield also tastive particles, (although without such material violence, and in a more subtle manner) must of necessity have in them the same nature, which those have that affect the taste; and they must both of them, affect a man much alike, by his taste and by his smell: and so, are very proportionate to one an other; excepting in those properties which require more cold or liquidity, then can well stand with the nature of a smell. And accordingly, the very names which men have imposed, to express the affections of both do many times agree: as savour, which is common both to the smell and to the taste; and sweet likewise: the strongest of which, we see oftentimes do make themselves known, as well by the one as by the other sense: and either of them in excess, will turn a man's stomach. And the Physicians that write of these senses find them very conformable: and therefore it happeneth that the losing of one of them, is the loss also of the other.  
And experience teacheth us in all beasts, that the smell is given unto living creatures, to know what meats are good for them, and what are not. And accordingly, we see them still smell for the most part, att any unknown meat before they touch it; which seldom faileth of informing them rightly: nature having provided this remedy against the gluttony, which could not choose but follow the convenient disposition and temper of their parts and humours; through which they often swallow their meat greedily and suddenly without expecting to try it first by their taste. Besides that many meats are so strong, that their very tasting them after their usual manner, would poison or at the least greatly annoy them: and therefore nature hath provided this sense to prevent their taste; which being far more subtle than their taste; the small atoms by which it is performed, are not so very noxious to the health of the animal, as the other grosser atoms are.  
And doubtlessly, the like use men would make of this sense, 
7 The reason why the sense of smelling is not so perfect in man as in beasts: with a wonderful history of a man who could wind a sent as well a● any beast.  had they not on the one side better means than it to know the qualities of meats: and therefore, this is not much reflected upon. And on the other side, were they not continually stuffed and clogged with gross vapours of steamy meats, which are daily reeking from the table and their stomaches; and permit not purer atoms of bodies, to be discerned; which require clear and uninfected organs to take notice of them. As we see it fare with dogs; who have not so true and sensible noses, when they are high fed, and lie in the kitchen amidst the steames of meat; as when they are kept in their kennel, with a more spare diett fit for hunting.  
One full example, this age affordeth us in this kind, of a man whose extremity of fear, wrought upon him to give us this experiment. He was borne in some village of the country of Liege: and therefore among strangers, he is known by the name of john of Liege. I have been informed of this story by several (whom I dare confidently believe) that have had it from his own mouth; and have questioned him with great curiosity, particularly about it.  
When he was a little boy, there being wars in the country (as that State is seldom without molestations from abroad, when they have no distempers at home, which is an unseparable effect of a country's situation upon the frontiers of powerful neighbouring Princes that are at variance) the village of whence he was, had notice of some unruly scattered troops that were coming to pillage them: which made all the people of the village fly hastily with what they could carry with them, to hide themselves in the woods: which were spacious enough to afford them shelter, for they joined upon the forest of Ardenne. There they lay, till some of their scouts brought them word, that the soldiers of whom they were in such apprehension, had fired their town and quitted it. Then all of them returned home, excepting this boy; who, it seemeth, being of a very timorous nature, had images of fear so strong in his fancy; that first, he ran further into the wood than any of the rest; and afterwards apprehended that every body he saw through the thickets, and every voice he heard was the soldiers: and so hid himself from his parents, that were in much distress seeking him all about, and calling his name as loud as they could. When they had spent a day or tw● in vain, they returned home without him, and he lived many years in the woods, feeding upon roots, and wild fruits, and mast.  
He said that after he had been some time in this wild habitation, he could by the smell judge of the taste of any thing that was to be eaten: and that he could at a great distance wind by his nose, where wholesome fruits or roots did grow. In this state he continued (still shunning men with as great fear as when he first ran away; so strong the impression was, and so little could his little reason master it) until in a very sharp winter, that many beasts of the forest perished for want of food; necessity brought him to so much confidence, that leaving the wild places of the forest, remote from all people's dwellings, he would in the eveninge steal among cattle that were fothered; especially the swine, and among them, glean that which served to sustain wretchedly his miserable life. He could not do this so cunningly, but that returning often to it, he was upon a time espied: and they who saw a beast of so strange a shape (for such they took him to be; he being naked and all over grown with hair) believing him to be a satire, or some such prodigious creature as the recounters of rare accidents tell us of; laid wait to apprehend him. But he that wound them as far off, as any beast could do, still avoided them, till at the length, they laid snares for him; and took the wind so advantageously of him, that they caught him: and then, soon perceived he was a man▪ though he had quite forgotten the use of all language: but by his gestures and cries, he expressed the greatest affrightednesse that might be. Which afterwards, he said (when he had learned anew to speak) was because he thought, those were the soldiers he had hidden himself to avoid, when he first betook himself to the wood; and were always lively in his fancy, through his fears continually reducing them thither.  
This man within a little while after he came to good keeping and full feeding, quite lost that acuteness of smelling which formerly governed him in his taste; and grew to be in that particular as other ordinary men were. But at his first living with other people, a woman that had compassion of him to see a man so near like a beast; and that had no language to call for what he wished or needed to have; took particular care of him; and was always very solicitous to see him furnished with what he wanted: which made him so apply himself unto her in all his occurrents, that whensoever he stood in need of aught, if she were out of the way, and were gone abroad into the fields, or to any other village near by, he would hunt her out presently by his scent, in such sort as with us those dogs use to do which are taught to draw dry foot. I imagine he his yet alive to tell a better story of himself than I have done; and to confirm what I have here said of him: for I have from them who saw him but few years agone, that he was an able strong man, and likely to last yet a good while longer.  
And of an other man, I can speak assuredly myself, who being of a very temperate or rather spare diett, could likewise perfectly discern by his smell the qualities of whatsoever was afterwards to pass the examination of his taste, even to his bread and beer. Wherefore to conclude it is evident both by reason, and by experience, that the objects of our touch, our taste, and our smell, are material and corporeal things, derived from the division of quantity, into more rare and more dense parts; and may with ease, be resolved into their heads and springes sufficiently to content any judicious and rational man. Who if he be curious to have further satisfaction in this particular (as far as concerneth odours and savours) may look over what joannes Braws (that judicious, though unpolished Physician of Salamanca) hath written thereof.   

THE EIGHT AND TWENTIETH CHAPTER. Of the sense of hearing, and of the sensible quality sound.  
But to proceed with the rest of the senses: because nature saw that some things came suddenly upon a living creature; 
1 Of the sense of hearing: and that sound is purely motion.  which might do it hurt, if they were not perceived a far off: and that other things were placed at distance from it, which would greatly help it, if it could come near unto them; she found a means to give us two senses more, for the discovery of remote things. The one principally and particularly to descry their motion. The other to mark their bulk and situation.  
And so to begin with the former of these; we must needs acknowledge (after due examination of the matter) that the thing which we call sound▪ is purely motion. And if it be objected that many motions are made without any discernible sound. We shall not make difficulty to grant it; considering that many motions die, before they come to touch the ear; or else are so weak, that they are drowned by other stronger motions, which round about besiege our ears in such manner, that notice is not taken of these: for so it fareth in what dependeth merely of quantity, especially, concerning our senses, that not every thing of the kind, but a determinate quantity or multitude of parts of it, maketh an object sensible.  
But to come close to the point; we see that sound, for the most part, is made in the air; and that to produce it, there is required a quick and smart motion of that Element, which, of all the rest, is the most movable. And in motion, velocity or quickness, is proportionate to density in magnitude (as we have at large declared.) Which maketh quantity become perceptible in bulk, as this doth in motion. And as the one consisteth in a greater proportion of substance to the same quantity; so the other doth in the passage of more parts of the medium in the same time.  

2 Of divers arts belonging to the sense of hearing: all which confirm that sound is nothing but motion.  And in the moderating of this, such of the liberal arts are employed, which belong to the cultivating man's voice; as Rhetoric, meetering, and singing. It is admirable how finely Galileo hath delivered us the consonances of music towards the end of his first Dialogue of motion; from the 95 page forward on: and how he hath showed that matter clearly unto the sight (so making the eye, as well as the ear judge of it) in motions of the water, in pendants hanging loose in the air, and in permanent notes or races made upon letton. To the moderation of the same, many other mechanical arts are applied; as the trade of bellfounders; and of all makers of musical instruments by wind, or by water, or by strings.  
Neither can I slip over without mentioning the two curious arts of Echoing and of whispering. The first of which, teacheth to iterate voices several times; and is frequently put in practice by those that are delighted with rarities in their gardens. And the other, sheweth how to gather into a narrow room the motions of the air, that are diffused in a great extent; whereby, one that shall put his ear to that place, where all the several motions do meet, shall hear what is spoken so low, as no body between him, and the speaker, can discern any sound at all. Of which kind, there are very fine curiosities in some churches of England: and myself have seen, in an upper room of a capacious round tower vaulted overhead, the walls so contrived (by chance, I believe) that two men standing at the utmost opposite points of the Diameter of it, could talk very currently and clearly with one an other; and yet none that stood in the middle could hear a syllable. And if he turned his face to the wall and spoke against that (though never so softly) the others ear, at the opposite point, would discern every word. Which putteth me in mind of a note made by one that was no friend to auricular confession; upon his occasion of his being with me in a church that had been of a Monastery; where, in one corner of it, one might sit and hear almost all that was whispered through the whole extent of the church: who would not be persuaded but that it was on purpose contrived so by the suttlety of the friars; to the end that the Prior or some one of them, might sit there and hear whatsoever the several Penitents accused themselves of to their Ghostly fathers; so to make advantage by this artifice, of what the confessors durst not of themselves immediately reveal.  
He allowed better of the use in Rome of making voices rebound from the top of the cupula of st: Peter in the Vatican, down to the floor of the church; when on great days they make a choir of music go up to the very highest▪ part of the arch: which is into the lantern, from whence whiles they sing, the people below just under it, are surprised with the smart sound of thaeir voices, as though they stood close by them, and yet can see no body from whom those notes should proceed. And in the same cupula, if two men stand upon the large cornish or board, which circleth the bottom of it, they may observe the like effect, as that which I spoke of above in the round tower.  
In the like manner they that are called ventriloqui, do persuade ignorant people that the Devil speaketh from within them deep in their belly) by their sucking their breath inwardly in a certain manner whiles they speak: whence it followeth that their voice seemeth to come, not from them, but from somewhat else hidden within them; if (at the least) you perceive it cometh out of them: but if you do not, than it seemeth to come from a good way off.  
To this art belongeth the making of sarabatanes, or trunks, to help the hearing; and of Echo glasses, that multiply sounds, as burning glasses, do light. All which arts, and the rules of them, do follow the laws of motion; and every effect of them is to be demonstrated by the principles and proportions of motion: and therefore, we can not with reason imagine them to be any thing else.  
We see likewise, that great noises, 
3 The same is confirmed by the effects caused by great noises.  not only offend the hearing, but even shake houses and towers. I have been told by inhabitants of Dover; that when the Arch Duke Albertus made his great battery against Calais (which for the time was a very furious one; for he endeavoured all he could to take the town before it could be relieved) the very houses were shaken, and the glass windows were shivered, with the report of his artillery. And I have been told by one that was in Seville, when the gunnepouder house of that town (which was some two miles distant from the place where he lived) was blown up, that it made the wooden shutters of the windows in his house, beat and clap against the walls with great violence, and did split the very walls of a fair church that standing next it (though at a good distance) had no other building between to shelter it from the impetuosity of the airs sudden violent motion.  
And after a fight I once had with some galleasses and Galliones in the road of Scanderone (which was a very hot one for the time, and a scarce credible number of pieces of ordinance were shot from my fleet) the English Consul of that place coming afterwards aboard my ship, told me that the report of our guns, had, during all the time of the fight, shaken the drinking glasses that stood upon shelves in his house; and had split the paper windows all about; and had spoilt and cracked all the eggs that his pigeons were then sitting upon: which loss, he lamented exceedingly; for they were of that kind, which commonly is called Carriers, and serve them daily in their commerce between that place and Aleppo.  
And I have often observed at sea, in smooth water, that the ordinance shot of in a ship some miles distant, would violently shake the glass windows in an other. And I have perceived this effect in my own, more than once, att the report of a single gun from a ship so far off, that we could not descry her. I remember how one time, upon such an occasion, we altered our course and steered with the sound, or rather with the motion at the first, observing upon which point of the compass the shaking appeared (for as yet we heard nothing; though soon after with much attention and silence we could discern a dull clumsy noise: and such a motion groweth at the end of it so faint that if any strong resisting body check it in its course, it is presently deadened, and will afterwards shake nothing beyond that body: and therefore it is perceptible only at the outside of the ship, if some light and very movable body do hang loosely on that side it cometh, to receive the impression of it; as this did at the gallery windows of my cabin upon the poop, which were of light moscovia glass or talk:) and by than we had run somewhat more than a watch, with all the sails abroad we could make, and in a fair loom gale, we found our salves near enough to part the fray of two ships, that in a little while longer fight would have sunk one an other.  

4 That solid bodies may convey the motion of the air or sound to the organ of hearing.  But besides the motions of the air (which receiveth them easily, by reason of the fluidity of it) we see that even solid bodies do participate of it. As if you knock never so lightly at one end of the longest beam you can find, it will be distinctly hard at the other end: the trampling of men and horses in a quiet might, will be heard some miles off, if one lay their ear to the ground; and more sensibly if one make a little hole in the earth, and put ones ear into the mouth of it; but most of all if one set a drum smooth upon the ground, and lay ones ear to the upper edge of it; for the lower membrane of the drum, is shaked by the motion of the earth, and then multiplieth that sound by the hollow figure of the drum in the conveying it to the upper membrane, upon which your ear leaneth. Not much unlike the tympane or drum of the ear; which being shaked by outward motion, causeth a second motion on the inside of it correspondent to this first; and this having a free passage to the brain, striketh it immediately and so informeth it how things move without: which is all the mystery of hearing.  

5 Where the motion is interrupted there is no sound.  If any thing do break or stop this motion▪ before it shake our ear, it is not heard. And accordingly we see that the sound of bells or artillery is heard much further if it have the conduct of waters, then through the pure air: because in such bodies the great continuity of them maketh that one part can not shake alone, and upon their superficies, there is no notable unevenness, nor no dense thing in the way to check the motion (as in the air, hills, buildings, trees and such like:) so that the same shaking goeth a great way. And to confirm that this is the true reason, I have several times observed, that standing by a river's side, I have heard the sound of a ring of bells, much more distinctly and loud, then if I went some distance from the water, though nearer to the steeple from whence the sound came.  
And it is not only the motion of the air, that maketh sound in our ears: 
6 That not only the motion of the air but all other motions coming to our ears make sounds.  but any motion that hath access to them in such a manner as to shake the quivering membranous tympane within them, will represent unto us those motions which are without, and so make such a sound there as if it were conveyed only by the air. Which is plainly seen, when a man lying a good way under water, shall there hear the same sounds, as are made above in the air: but in a more clumsy manner; according as the water, by being thicker, and more corpulent is more unwieldy in its motions. And this I have tried often; staying under water as long as the necessity of breathing would permit me. Which showeth that the air being smartly moved, moveth the water also, by means of its continuity with it; and that liquid element, being fluid and getting into the ear, maketh vibrations upon the drum of it like unto those of air.  
But all this is nothing in respect of what I might in some sort say, 
7 How one sense may supply the want of an other.  and yet speak truth. Which is that I have seen one, who could discern sounds with his eyes. It is admirable, how one sense will oftentimes supply the want of an other: whereof I have seen an other strange example in a different strain from this; of a man that by his grosser senses had his want of sight wonderfully made up. He was so throughly blind, that his eyes could not inform him when the sun shined; for all the crystalline humour was out in both his eyes: yet his other senses instructed him, so efficaciously in what was their office to have done; as what he wanted in them, seemed to be overpayed in other abilities. To say that he would play at cards and tables as well as most men; is rather a commendation of his memory and fancy, then of any of his outward senses. But that he should play well at bowls and shovelbord, and other games of aim, which in other men do require clear sight, and an exact level of the hand, according to the qualities of the earth or table, and to the situation and distance of the place he was to throw att, seemeth to exceed possibility: and yet he did all this.  
He would walk in a chamber or long alley in a garden (after he had been a while used to them) as strait, and turn as just at the ends, as any seeing man could do. He would go up and down every where so confidently, and demean himself at table so regularly, as strangers have sitten by him several meals, and have seen him walk about the house, without ever observing any want of seeing in him: which he endeavoured what he could to hide, by wearing his hat low upon his brows. He would, at the first aboard of a stranger, as soon as he spoke to him, frame a right apprehension of his stature, bulk and manner of making. And which is more, when he taught his scholars to declaim (for he was schoolmaster to my sons, and lived in my house) or to represent some of Senecas Tragedies, or the like, he would by their voice know their gesture, and the situation they put their bodies in: so that he would be able, as soon as they spoke, to judge whether they stood or sat, or in what posture they were; which made them demean themselves as decently, before him whiles they spoke, as if he had seen them perfectly.  
Though all this be very strange, yet me thinks his discerning of light is beyond it all. He would feel in his body, and chiefly in his brain (as he hath often told me) a certain effect by which he did know when the sun was up; and would discern exactly a clear from a cloudy day. This I have known him frequently do without missing, when for trial sake he hath been lodged in a close chamber, whereunto the clear light or sun could not arrive to give him any notice by its actual warmeth; nor any body could come to him, to give him private warnings of the changes of the weather.  

8 Of one who could discern sounds of words with his eyes.  But this is not the relation I intended, when I mentioned one that could hear by his eyes; (if that expression may be permitted me) I then reflected upon a noble man of great quality that I knew in Spain, the younger brother of the Constable of Castille. But the reflection of his seeing of words, called into my remembrance the other that felt light: in whom I have often remarked so many strange passages, with amazement and delight; that I have adventured upon the Readers patience to record some of them, conceiving they may be of some use in our course of doctrine. But the spanish lord, was borne deaf; so deaf, that if a gun were shot off close by his ear, he could not hear it: and consequently, he was dumb; for not being able to hear the sound of words; he could neither imitate nor understand them. The loveliness of his face and especially the exceeding life and spiritefulnesse of his eyes, and the comeliness of his person and whole composure of his body throughout, were pregnant signs of a well tempered mind within. And therefore all that knew him, lamented much the want of means to cultivate it, and to imbue it with the notions which it seemed to be capable of in regard of its self; had it not been so crossed by this unhappy accident. Which to remedy Physicians and Surgeons had long employed their skill; but all in vain. Att the last, there was a priest who undertook the teaching him to understand others when they spoke, and to speak himself that others might understand him. What at the first he was laughed at for; made him after some years be looked upon as if he had wrought a miracle. In a word; after strange patience, constancy and pains; he brought the young Lord to speak as distinctly as any man whosoever; and to understand so perfectly what others said that he would not lose a word in a whole day's conversation.  
They who have a curiosity to see by what steps the master proceeded in teaching him, may satisfy it by a book which he himself hath writ in Spanish upon that subject, to instruct others how to teach deaf and dumb persons to speak. Which when he shall have looked heedfully over; and shall have considered what a great distance there is between the simplicity and nakedness of his first principles; and the strange readiness and vast extent of speech resulting in process of time out of them; he will forbear pronuncing an impossibility in their pedigree, whiles he wondereth at the numerous effects resulting in bodies out of rarity and density, ingeniously mingled together by an all knowing Architect, for the production of various qualities among mixtes, of strange motions in particular bodies, and of admirable operations of life and sense among vegetables and animals. All which, are so many several words of the mystical language, which the great master hath taught his otherwise dumb scholars (the creatures) to proclaim his infinite art, wisdom, perfections, and excellency in.  
The priest who by his book and art, occasioned this discourse, I am told is still alive, and in the service of the Prince of Carignan, where he continueth (with some that have need of his pains) the same employment as he did with the Constable's Brother: with whom I have often discoursed, whiles I waited upon the Prince of Wales (now our gracious Sovereign) in Spain. And I doubt not but his majesty remembreth all I have said of him and much more: for his majesty was very curious to observe and inquire into the utmost of it. It is true, one great misbecomingnesse he was apt to fall into, whiles he spoke: which was an uncertainty in the tone of his voice; for not hearing the sound he made when he spoke, he could not steedily govern the pitch of his voice; but it would be sometimes higher sometimes lower; though for the most part, what he delivered together, he ended in the same key as he begun it. But when he had once suffered the passages of his voice to close, at the opening them again, chance, or the measure of his earnestness to speak or to reply, gave him his tone: which he was not capable of moderating by such an artifice, as is recorded Caius Gracchus used, when passion, in his orations to the people, drove out his voice with too great a vehemence or shrillenesse.  
He could discern in an other, whether he spoke shrill or low: and he would repeat after any body, any hard word whatsoever. Which the Prince tried often; not only in English, but by making some Welshmen that served his Highness, speak words of their language. Which he so perfectly echoed, that I confess I wondered more at that, then at all the rest. And his Master himself would acknowledge, that the rules of his art, reached not to produce that effect with any certainty. And therefore concluded, this in him must spring from other rules he had framed unto himself, out of his own attentive observation: which, the advantage that nature had justly given him in the sharpness of his other senses, to supply the want of this; endowed him with an ability and sagacity to do, beyond any other man that had his hearing. He expressed it (surely) in a high measure, by his so exact imitation of the welsh pronunciation: for that tongue (like the Hebrew) employeth much the guttural letters: and the motions of that part which frameth them, can not be seen nor judged by the eye, otherwise then by the effect they may happily make by consent in the other parts of the mouth, exposed to view: for the knowledge he had of what they said, sprung from his observing the motions they made; so that he could converse currently in the light, though they he talked with, whispered never so softly. And I have seen him at the distance of a large chambers breadth, say words after one, that I standing close by the speaker could not hear a syllable of. But if he were in the dark, or if one turned his face out of his sight, he was capable of nothing one said.  

9 divers reasons to prove sound to be nothing else but a motion of some real body.  But it is time that we return to our theme, from whence my blind schoolmaster, and this deaf Prince (whose defects were overpayed an other way) have carried us with so long a digression. Which yet will not be altogether useless (no more than the former, of the wild man of Liege) if we make due reflections upon them: for when we shall consider, that odours may be tasted; that the relish of meats may be smelled; that magnitude and figure may be heard; that light may be felt; and that sounds may be seen; (all which is true in some sense) we may by this changing the offices of the senses, and by looking into the causes thereof; come to discern that these effects are not wrought by the intervention of eyrie qualities; but by real and material applications of bodies to bodies; which in different manners do make the same results within us.  
But when I suffered my pen to be steered by my fancy, that pleased itself, and rioted in the remembrance of these two notable persons: I was speaking, how the strong continuity of the parts of a thing that is moved, draweth on the motion, and consequently the sound, much further than where that which is moved suffereth breaches, or the rarity of it occasioneth that one part may be moved without an other; for to the proportion of the shaking, the noise continueth. As we see in trembling bells, that hum a great while longer than others, after the clapper hath strucken them: and the very sound, seemeth to quiver and shake in our ears, proportionable to the shaking of the bell. And in a lute as long as a string that hath been strucken, shaketh sensibly to our eye; so long, and to the same measure, the sound shaketh in our ear. Which is nothing else but an undulation of the air, caused by the smart and thick vibrations of the cord, and multiplied in the belly of the instrument (which is the reason that the concave figure is affected in most) and so, when it breaketh out of the instrument in greater quantity, than the string immediately did shake; it causeth, the same undulations in the whole body of air round about. And that, striking the drum of the ear, giveth notice there in what tenor the string moveth: whose vibrations if one stop by laying his fingar upon it, the Sound is instantly at an end, for then there is no cause on foot, that continueth the motion of the air: which, without a continuation of the impulse; returneth speedily to quiett; through the resistance made unto it, by other parts of it that are further off.  
Out of all which, it is plain, that motion alone is able to effect, and to give account of all things whatsoever that are attributed to sound; and that sound and motion, do go hand in hand together; and that whatsoever is said of the one, is likewise true of the other. Wherefore it can not be denied but that hearing is nothing else but the due perception of motion: and that motion and sound are in themselves one and the same thing, though expressed by different names, and comprised in our understanding under different notions. Which proposition seemeth to be ●et further convinced, by the ordinary experience of perceiving music by mediation of a stick: for how should a deaf man be capable of music by holding a stick in his tooth, whose other end lieth upon the vial or virginals, were it not that the proportional shaking of the stick (working a like dancing in the man's head) did make a like motion in his brain, without passing through his ear? and consequently, without being otherwise sound, then as bare motion is sound.  
Or if any man will still persist in having sound be some other thing then as we say; and that it affecteth the sense otherwise then purely by motion: he must nevertheless acknowledge, that whatsoever it be, it hath neither cause nor effect, nor breeding, nor dying, that we either know or can imagine: and then, if he will let Reason sway, he will conclude it unreasonable to say or suspect so ill grounded a surmise, against so clear and solid proofs: which our ears themselves do not a little confirm; their whole figure and nature tending to the perfect receiving, conserving, and multiplying the motions of air which happen without a man: as who is curious, may plainly see in the Anatomists books and discourses.   

THE NINE AND TWENTIETH CHAPTER. Of Sight; and Colours.  
THere is yet left, 
1 That Colours are nothing but light mingled with darkness; or the disposition off a body's superficies apt to reflect light so mingled.  the object of our sight, which we call colour, to take a survey of; for as for light, we have at large displayed the nature and properties of it: from which whether colour be different or no, will be the question we shall next discuss: for those who are cunning in Optikes; will, by refractions and by reflections make all sorts of colours out of pure light: as we see in Rainbows, in those triangular glasses, or prismes which some do call fools Paradises, and in other inventions for this purpose. Wherefore, in brief, to show what colour is, let us lay for a ground, that light is of all other things in the worl●, the greatest and the most powerful agent upon our eye; either by itself, or by what cometh in with it: and that, where light is not, darkness is; then consider, that light being diversely to be cast, but especially, through or from a transparent body, into which it sinketh in part, and in part it doth not: and you will conclude, that it can not choose but come out from such a body, in divers sorts mingled with darkness: which if it be in a sensible quantity, doth accordingly make divers appearances: and those appearances must of necessity have divers hues, representing the colours which are middle colours between white and black; since white is the colour of light; and darkness seemeth black. Thus, those colours are engendered, which are called apparent ones. And they appear sometimes but in some one position; as in the rainbow; which changeth place as the looker on doth: but at other times, they may be seen from any part; as those which light maketh by a double refraction through a triangular glass.  
And that this is rightly delivered, may be gathered out of the conditions requisite to their production: for that crystal, or water, or any refracting body, doth not admit light in all its parts, is evident, by reason of the reflection that it maketh, which is exceeding great: and not only from the superficies, but even from the middle of the body within: as you may see plainly, if you put it in a dark place, and enlighten but one part of it: for then, you may perceive, as it were, a current of light pass quite through the body, although your eye be not opposite to the passage: so that, manifestly it reflecteth to your eye, from all the inward parts which it lighteth upon.  
Now a more oblique reflection or refraction doth more disperse the light, and admitteth more privations of light in its parts, than a less oblique one: as Galileo hath demonstrated in the first Dialogue of his system. Wherefore, a less oblique reflection or refraction, may receive that in quality of light, which a more oblique one maketh appear mingled with darkness; and consequently, the same thing will appear colour in one, which showeth itself plain light in the other; for the greater the inclination of an angle is, the greater also is the dispersion of the light.  
And as colours are made in this sort, by the medium through which light passeth, so if we conceive the superficies from which the light reflecteth, to be diversely ordered in respect of reflection; it must of necessity follow that it will have a divers lustre and sight: as we see by experience in the necks of pigeons, and in certain positions of our eye, in which the light passing through our eye brows, maketh an appearance as though we saw divers colours streaming from a candle we look upon. And accordingly we may observe how some things, or rather most, do appear of a colour more inclining to white, when they are irradiated with a great light, then when they stand in a lesser. And we see painters heighten their colours, and make them appear lighter by placing deep shadows by them: even so much, that they will make objects appear nearer and further of, merely by their mixtion of their colours. Because, objects, the nearer they are, the more strongly and lively they reflect light, and therefore, appear the clearer, as the others do more dusky.  
Therefore, 
2 Concerning the disposition of those bodies which produce white or black colours.  if we put the superficies of one body to have a better disposition for the reflection of light, than an other hath; we can not but conceive, that such difference in the superficies, must needs beget variety of permanent colours in the bodies. And according as the superficies of the same body, is better, or worse disposed to reflection of light, by polishing, or by compressure together, or the like: so, the same body, remaining the same in substance, will show itself of a different colour. And it being evident that white (which is the chiefest colour) doth reflect most light: and as evident, that black reflecteth least light, so that it reflecteth shadows in lieu of colours (as the Obsidian stone among the Romans doth witness.) And it being likewise evident, that to be dense and hard, and of small parts, is the disposition of the object which is most apt to reflect light: we can not doubt, but that white is that disposition of the superficies. That is to say, it is the superficies of a body consisting of dense, of hard, and of small parts; and on the contrary side, that black is the disposition of the superficies, which is most soft and full of greatest pores; for when light meeteth with such a superficies, it getteth easily into it; and is there, as it were absorbed and hidden in caves, and cometh not out again to reflect towards our eye.  
This doctrine of ours of the generation of colours, 
3 The former doctrine confirmed by Aristot●les authority, reason, and experience.  agreeth exactly with Aristotle's principles, and followeth evidently out of his definitions of light, and of colours And for summing up the general sentiments of mankind in making his Logical definitions, I think no body will deny his being the greatest Master that ever was He defineth light to be actus Diaphani: which we may thus explicate. It is that thing, which maketh a body that hath an aptitude or capacity of being seen quite through it in every interior part of it, to be actually seen quite through, according to that capacity of it. And he defineth colour to be, The term or ending of a diaphanous body: the meaning whereof is: that colour is a thing which makes a diaphanous body to reach no further; or that colour is the cause why a body is no further diaphanous, then until where it beginneth; or that colour, is the reason, why we can see no further then to such a degree, through or into such a body.  
Which definition fitteth most exactly with the thing it giveth us the nature of. For it is evident, that when we see a body, the body we see, hindereth us from seeing any other, that is in a strait line beyond it. And therefore it can not be denied, but that colour terminateth, and endeth the diaphaneity of a body, by making itself be seen. And all men do agree in conceiving this, to be the nature of colour; and that it is a certain disposition of a body, whereby that body cometh to be seen. On the other side, nothing is more evident, then that to have us see a body, light must reach from that body to our eye. Then adding unto this what Aristotle teacheth concerning the production of seeing: which he saith is made by the action of the seen body upon our sense: it followeth that the object must work upon our sense, either by light; or at the least with light; for light rebounding from the object round about by strait lines, some part of it must needs come from the object to our eye. Therefore, by how much an object sendeth more light unto our eye, by so much, that object worketh more upon it.  
Now seeing that divers objects do send light in divers manners to our eye, according to the divers natures of those objects in regard of hardness, density, and littleness of parts: we must agree that such bodies do work diversely, and do make different motions or impressions upon our eye: and consequently, the passion of our eye from such objects must be divers. But there is no other diversity of passion in the eye from the object in regard of seeing, but that the object appear divers to us in point of colour. Therefore we must conclude, that divers bodies (I mean divers or different, in that kind we here talk of) must necessarily seem to be of divers colours, merely by the sending of light unto our eye in divers fashions. Nay, the very same object must appear of different colours, whensoever it happeneth that it reflecteth light differently to us. As we see in cloth, if it be gathered together in folds, the bottoms of those folds show to be of one kind of colour, and the tops of them, or where the cloth is stretched out to the full percussion of light, it appeareth to be of an other much brighter colour. And accordingly painters are fain to use almost opposite colours to express them. In like manner if you look upon two pieces of the same cloth, or plush, whose grains lie contrawise to one an other, they will likewise appear to be of different colours. Both which accidents, and many others like unto them in begetting various representations of colours; do all of them arise out of lights being more or less reflected from one part then from an other.  

4 How the diversity of colours do follow out of various degrees of rarity and density.  Thus than you see, how colour is nothing else, but the disposition of a body's superficies, as it is more or less apt to reflect light; sithence the reflection of light is made from the superficies of the seen body, and the variety of its reflection begetteth variety of colours. But a superficies is more or less apt to reflect light, according to the degrees of its being more or less penetrable by the force of light striking upon it; for those rays of light that gain no entrance into a body they are darted upon, must of necessity fly back again from it. But if light doth get entrance and penetrate into the body▪ it either passeth quite through it; or else it is swallowed up and lost in that body. The former, constituteth a diaphanous body; as we have already determined. And the semblance which the latter will have in regard of colour, we have also showed must be black.  
But let us proceed a little further. We know that two things render a body penetrable, or easy to admit an other body into it. Holes, (such as we call pores) and softness or humidity; so that dryness, hardness, and compactedness, must be the properties which render a body impenetrable. And accordingly we see, that if a diaphanous body (which suffereth light to run through it) be much compressed beyond what it was; as when water is compressed into ice; it becometh more visible, that is, it reflecteth more light: and consequently, it becometh more white; for white is that, which reflecteth most light.  
On the contrary side, softness, unctuousnesse, and viscousnesse, increaseth blackness: as you may experience in oiling or in greasing of wood; which before was but brown; for thereby it becometh more black; by reason that the unctuous parts added unto the other, do more easily than they single, admit into them the light that striketh upon them; and when it is gotten in, it is so entangled there (as though the wings of it were birdlimed over) that it can not fly out again. And thus it is evident, how the origine of all colours in bodies, is plainly deduced out of the various degrees of rarity and density, variously mixed and compounded. 
5 Why some bodies are Diaphanous others opacous.   
Likewise, out of this discourse, the reason is obvious why some bodies, are diaphanous, and others are opacous: for sithence it falleth out in the constitution of bodies, that one is composed of greater parts than an other: it must needs happen that light be more hindered in passing through a body composed of bigger parts, than an other whose parts are less. Neither doth it import that the pores be supposed as great as the parts, for be they never so large, the corners of the thick parts they belong unto, must needs break the course of what will not bow, but goeth all in strait lines; more than if the parts and pores were both lesser; since, for so subtle a piercer as light, no pores can be too little to give it entrance. It is true such great ones would better admit a liquid body into them, such a one as water or air; but the reason of that is, because they will bow and take any ply, to creep into those cavities, if they be large enough, which light will not do.  
Therefore it is clear, that freedom of passage can happen unto light, only there, where there is an extreme great multitude of pores and parts in a very little quantity or bulk of body (which pores and parts must consequently be extreme little ones) for, by reason of their multitude, there must be great variety in their situation: from whence it will happen that many lines must be all of pores quite through; and many others all of parts; although the most, will be mixed of both pores and parts. And so we see that although the light do pass quite through in many places, yet it reflecteth from more, not only in the superficies but in the very body itself of the diaphanous substance. But in an other substance of great parts, and pores there can be but few whole lines of pores, by which the light may pass from the object to make it be seen; and consequently it must be opacous; which is the contrary of Diaphanous that admitteth many rays of light, to pass through it from the object to the eye, whereby it is seen, though the Diaphanous hard body, do intervene between them.  

6 The former doctrine of colours confirmed by the generation of white and Black in bodies.  Now if we consider the generation of these two colours (white and black) in bodies; we shall find that likewise to justify and second our doctrine: for white things are generally cold and dry; and therefore, are by nature ordained to be receptacles, and conservers of heat, and of moisture; as Physicians do note. chose, black, as also green, (which is near of kin to black) are growing colours, and are the die of heat incorporated in abundance of wet: as we see in smoke, in pittecoale, in garden ground, and in chemical putrefactions: all which are black; as also in young herbs; which are generally green as long as they are young and growing. The other colours, keeping their standing betwixt these, are generated by the mixture of them; and according as they partake more or less of either of them, are nearer or further off from it.  
So that after all this discourse, we may conclude in short; that the colour of a body, is nothing else, but the power which that body hath of reflecting light unto the eye, in a certain order and position: and consequently, is nothing else but the very superficies of it, with its asperity, or smoothness; with its pores, or inequalities; with its hardness, or softness; and such like. The rules and limits whereof, if they were duly observed and ordered, the whole nature and science of colours, would easily be known and be described. But out of this little which we have delivered of this subject, it may be rightly inferred that real colours do proceed from Rarity and Density (as even now we touched) and have their head and spring there: and are not strange qualities in the air: but are tractable bodies on the earth, as all others are, which as yet we have found and have meddled with all: and are indeed, the very bodies themselves, causing such effects upon our eye by reflecting of light, which we express by the names of colours.   

THE THIRTIETH CHAPTER. Of luminous or apparent Colours.  

1 Apparitions of colours through a prism or triangular glass are of two sorts.  AS for the luminous colours, whose natures art hath made more maniable by us, than those which are called real colours, and are permanent in bodies: their generation is clearly to be seen in the Prism or triangular glass we formely mentioned. The considering of which, will confirm our doctrine, that even the colours of bodies, are but various mixtures of light and shadows, diversely reflected to our eyes. For the right understanding of them, we are to note, that this glass maketh apparitions of colours in two sorts: the one, when looking through it, there appear various colours in the objects you look upon (different from their real ones) according to the position you hold the glass in when you look upon them. The other sort is, when the beams of light that pass through the glass, are as it were tincted in their passage, and are cast by the glass upon some solid object, and do appear there in such and such colours, which do continue still the same, in what position soever you stand to look upon them; either before, or behind, or on any side of the glass.  
Secondly, 
2 The several parts of the object make several angles at their entrance into the prism.  we are to note that these colours are generally made by refraction (though sometimes it may happen otherwise, as above we have mentioned.) To discover the reason of the first sort of colours, that appear by refraction when one looketh through the glass: let us suppose two several bodies, the one black, the other white, lying close by one an other, and in the same horizontal parallel; but so, that the black be further from us then the white; then, if we hold the Prism through which we are to see these two oppositely coloured bodies somewhat above them; and that side of it at which the coloured bodies must enter into the glass to come to our eye, parallel unto those bodies; it is evident, that the black will come into the prism by lesser angles then the white: I mean that in the line of distance from that face of the glass at which the colours do come in, a longer line or part of black will subtend an angle, no bigger than a lesser line or part of white doth subtend.  
Thirdly, 
3 The reason why some times the same object appeareth through the prism in two places: and in one place more lively, in the other place more dims.  we are to note, that from the same point of the object, there come various beams of light to that whole superficies of the glass; so that it may, and sometimes doth happen, that from the same part of the object, beams may be reflected to the eye, from several parts of that superficies of the glass at which they enter. And whensoever this happeneth, the object must necessarily be seen in divers parts: that is, the picture of it will at the same time appear to the eye in divers places. And particularly, we may plainly observe two pictures, one a lively and strong one; the other a faint and dim one. Of which the dim one will appear nearer us, than the lively one: and is caused by a secondary ray: or rather I should say, by a longer ray, that striking nearer to the hither ●dge of the glasses superficies (which is the furthest from the object) maketh a more acute angle then a shorter ray doth, that striketh upon a part of the glass further from our eye, but nearer the object. And therefore the image which is made by this secondary or longer ray, must appear both nearer and more dusky, than the image made by the primary and shorter ray. And the further from the object that the glass through which it reflecteth is situated (keeping still in the same parallel to the horizon) the further the place where the second dusky picture appeareth, is from the place where the primary strong picture appeareth.  
If any man have a mind to satisfy himself by experience, of the truth of this note, let him place a sheet of white paper upon a black carpett covering a table, so as the paper may reach within two or three fingers of the edge of the carpet, (under which, let there be nothing to succeed the black of the carpet, but the empty dusky air) and then let him set himself at a convenient distance, (the measure of which is, that the paper appear at his feet, when he looketh through the glass) and look at the paper through his Prism situated in such sort as we have above determined, and he will perceive a whitish or lightsome shadow proceed from the lively picture that he seeth of white, and shoot out nearer towards him then that lively picture is, and he will discern that it cometh into the glass through a part of it nearer to his eye or face, and further from the object then the strong image of the white doth. And further, if he causeth the nearer part of the paper to be covered with some thin body of a sadder colour, this dim white vanisheth: which it doth not if the further part of the paper be covered. Whereby it is evident, that it is a secondary image, proceeding from the hither part of the paper.  

4 The reason of the various colours that appear in looking through a prism.  Now then to make use of what we have said, to the finding out of the reason why the red and blue and other colours appear when one looketh through a prism: let us proceed upon our former example, in which a white paper lieth upon a black carpett (for, the diametral opposition of those colours, maketh them most remarkable) in such sort that there be a parcel of black on the hither side of the paper: and therein, let us examine according to our grounds, what colours must appear at both ends of the paper looking upon them through the triangular glass.  
To begin with the furthest end, where the black lieth beyond the white: we may consider, how there must come from the black, a secondary dark misty shadow (besides the strong black that appeareth beyond the paper) which must shoot towards you (in such sort as we said of the whitish lightsome shadow) and consequently, must lie over the strong picture of the white paper: now in this case, a third middling colour must result out of the mixture of these two extremes of black and white; since they come to the eye, almost in the same line, at the least in lines that make so little a difference in their angles as it is not discernible.  
The like whereof happeneth in clothes, or stuffs, or stockings, that are woven of divers coloured but very small thriddes: for if you stand so far of from such a piece of stuff, that the little thriddes of different colours which lie immediate to one an other may come together as in one line to your eye; it will appear of a middling colour, different from both those that it resulteth from: but if you stand so near that each third sendeth rays enough to your eye, and that the basis of the triangle which cometh from each third to your eye, be long enough to make at the vertex of it (which is in your eye) an angle big enough to be seen singly by itself; then each colour will appear apart as it truly is.  
Now the various natures of middling colours we may learn of painters; who compose them upon their palettes by a like mixture of the extremes. And they tell us, that if a white colour prevail strongly over a dark colour, reds and yellows result out of that mixture: but if black prevail strongly over white, then, blewes, violets, and seagreenes are made. And accordingly, in our case, we can not doubt but that the primarily lively picture of the white, must prevail over the faint dusky sable mantle with which it cometh mingled to the eye: and doing so, it must needs make a like appearance as the sun's beams do, when reflecting from a black cloud, they fringe the edges of it with red and with yellow; and the like he doth, when he looketh through a rainy or a windy cloud: and much like hereunto, we shall see this mixture of strong white with a faint shadow of black, make at this brim of the paper, a fair ledge of red; which will end and vanish, in a more lightsome one of yellow.  
But at the hither edge of the paper, where the secondary weak picture of white is mingled with the strong black picture, in this mixture, the black is prevalent, and accordingly (as we said of the mixture of the painters colours) there must appear at the bottom of the paper, a lembe of deep blue: which will grow more and more lightsome, the higher it goeth: and so, passing through violet and seagreene it will vanish in light, when it reacheth to the mastering field of primary whiteness, that sendeth his stronger rays by direct lines: and this transposition of the colours at the several ends of the paper showeth the reason why they appear quite contrary, if you put a black paper upon a white carpet. And therefore, we need not add any thing particularly concerning that.  
And likewise, 
5 The reason why the prism in one position, may make the colours appear quite contrary to what they did, when it was in an other position.  out of this we may understand, why the colours appear quite contrary (that is, red where before blew appeared; and blue, where red) if we look upon the same object through the glass in an other position or situation of it: namely, if we raise it so high, that we must look upwardly to see the object; which thereby appeareth above us: whereas in the former situation, it came in through the lower superficies, and we looked down to it, and it appeared under us: for in this second case, the objects coming into the glass by a superficies not parallel as before, but sloping, from the obiectwardes: it followeth, that the nearer the object is, the lesser must the angle be, which it maketh with the superficies; contrary to what happened in the former case: and likewise, that if from one point of the nearer object, there fall two rays upon the glass, the ray that falleth uppermost, will make a lesser angle, than the other that falleth lower: and so, by our former discourse, that point may come to appear in the same place with a point of the further object; and thereby make a middling colour.  
So that in this case, the white which is nearer, will mingle his feeble picture with the black that is further off; whereas before the black that was further off, mingled his feeble shadow with the strong picture of the nearer white. Wherefore by our rule we borrowed of the painters, there will now appear a blue on the further end off the paper, where before appeared a red; and by consequence on the nearer end a red will now appear, where in the former case a blew appeared. This case we have chosen, as the plainest to show the nature of such colours: out of which he that is curious, may derive his knowledge to other cases, which we omit; because our intent is only to give a general doctrine, and not the particulars of the science: and rather to take away admiration, then to instruct the Reader in this matter.  

6 The reason of the various colours in general by pure light passing through a prism.  As for the various colours, which are made by straining light through a glass, or through some other diaphanous body; to discover the causes and variety of them, we must examine what things they are that do concur to the making of them: and what accidents may arrive unto those things, to vary their product. It is clear, that nothing interueneth or concurreth to the producing of any of these colours, besides the light itself which is died into colour, and the glass or diaphanous body through which it passeth. In them therefore, and in nothing else, we are to make our enquiry.  
To begin then, we may observe, that light passing through a Prism, and being cast upon a reflecting object, is not always colour; but in some circumstances it still continueth light, and in others it becometh colour. Withal we may observe that those beams which continue light, and endure very little mutation by their passage, making as many refractions, do make much greater deflexions from the strait lines by which they came into the glass, than those rays do which turn to colour; as you may experience, if you oppose one surface of the glass perpendicularly to a candle, and set a paper (not irradiated by the candle) opposite to one of the other sides of the glass: for upon the paper, you shall see fair light shine without any colour: and you may perceive, that the 〈◊〉 by which the light cometh to the paper, is almost perpendicular to thalline by which the light cometh to the prism. But when light becometh colour, it stricketh very obliquely upon one side of the glass; and cometh likewise, very obliquely out of the other, that sendeth it in colour upon a reflectent body; so that in conlusion, there is nothing left us whereupon to ground the generation of such colours, besides the littleness of the angle and the sloapingnesse of the line, by which the illuminant striketh one side of the glass, and cometh out at the other, whem colours proceed from such a percussion.  
To this than we must wholly apply ourselves: and knowing that generally, when light falleth upon a body with so great a sloping or inclination, so much of it as getteth through, must needs be weak and much diffused; it followeth that the reason of such colours, must necessaryly consist in this diffusion and weakness of light; which the more it is diffused, the weaker it groweth; and the more lines of darkness, are between the lines of light, and do mingle themselves with them.  
To confirm this, you may observe, how just at the egress from the prism of that light which going on a little further becometh colours, no colour at all appeareth upon a paper opposed close to the side of the glass; until removing it further off, the colours begin to show themselves upon the edges: thereby convincing manifestly, that it was the excess of light which hindered them from appearing at the first. And in like manner, if you put a burning glass between the light and th● prism, so as to multiply the light which goeth through the prism to the paper, you destroy much of the colour by converting it into light. But on the other side, if you thicken the air, and make it dusky wi●h smoke, or with dust; you will plainly see, that where the light cometh through a convexe glass (perpendicularly opposed to the illuminant) there will appear colours on the edges of the cones that the light maketh: and peradventure the whole cones would appear coloured if the darkening were conveniently made: for if an opacous body, be set within either of the cones, its sides will appear coloured, though the air be but moderately thickened: which showeth that the addition of a little darkness, would make that which otherwise appeareth pure light, be throughly died into colours. And thus you have the true and adequate cause of the appearance of such colours.  
Now, 
7 Upon what side every colour appeareth that is made by pure light passing through a prism.  to understand what colours, and upon which sides, will appear: we may consider, that when light passeth through a glass, or other diaphanous body, so much of it as shineth in the air, or upon some reflecting body bigger than itself, after its passage through the glass, must of necessity have darkness on both sides of it; and so be comprised and limited by two darkenesses: but if some opacous body, that is less than the light, be put in the way of the light, than it may happen contrariwise, that there be darkness (or the shadow of that opacous body) between two lights.  
Again, we must consider, that when light falleth so upon a prism as to make colours, the two outward rays which proceed from the light to the two sides of the superficies at which the light entereth, are so refracted that at their coming out again through the other superficies, that ray which made the less angle with the outward superficies of the glass, going in, maketh the greater angle with the outside of the other superficies, coming out: and contrariwise, that ray which made the greater angle, going in, maketh the lesser, at its coming out: and the two internal angles, made by those two rays, and the outside of the superficies they issue at, are greater than two right angles: and so we see that the light dilateth itself at its coming out.  
Now, because rays that issue through a superficies, the nearer they are to be perpendiculars unto that superficies, so much the thicker they are: it followeth, that this dilatation of light at its coming out of the glass, must be made and must increase from that side where the angle was least at the going in, and greatest at the coming out: so that, the nearer to the contrary side you take a part of light, the thinner the light must be there: and chose, the thicker it must be, the nearer it is unto the side where the angle at the rays coming out is the greater. Wherefore, the strongest light, (that is, the place where the light is least mixed with darkness) must be nearer that side then the other. Consequently hereunto, if by an opacous body you make a shadow comprehended within this light, that shadow must also have its strongest part, nearer unto one of the lights betwixt which it is comprised, then unto the other: for, shadow being nothing else, but the want of light, hindered by some opacous body; it must of necessity lie aversed from the illuminant, just as the light would have lain if it had not been hindered. Wherefore, seeing that the stronger side of light, doth more impeach the darkness, than the feebler side doth; the deepest darke must incline to that side, where the light is weakest; that is, towards that side on which the shadow appeareth, in respect of the opacous body or of the illuminant, and so, be a cause of deepness of colour on that side, if it happen to be fringed with colour.   

THE ONE AND THIRTIETH CHAPTER. The causes of certain appearances in luminous Colours; with a conclusion of the discourse touching the senses and the sensible qualities.  

1 The reason of each several colour in particular caused by light passing through a prism.  Out of these grounds, we are to seek the resolution of all such symptoms as appear unto us in this kind of colours. First therefore calling to mind, how we have already declared, that the red colour is made by a greater proportion of light mingled with darkness, and the blue with a less proportion: it must follow, that when light passeth through a glass in such sort as to make colours; the mixture of the light and darkness on that side where the light is strongest will incline to a red: and their mixture on the other side, where the light is weakest, will make a violet or blue: and this we see to fall out accordingly, in the light which is tincted by going through a prism; for a red colour appeareth on that side from which the light doth dilate or decrease, and a blue is on that side towards which it decreaseth.  
Now, if a dark body be placed within this light, so as to have the light come on both sides of it: we shall see the contrary happen about the borders of the picture or shadow of the dark body: that is to say, the red colour will be on that side of the picture which is towards or over against the blue colour that is made by the glass: and the blue of the picture, will be on that side which is towards the red that is made by the glass, as you may experience if you place a slender opacous body a long the prism in the way of the light, either before or behind the prism. The reason whereof is; that the opacous body standing in the middle, environed by light, divideth the light, and maketh two lights of that which was but one; each of which lights, is comprised between two darkenesses, to wit, between each border of shadow that joineth to each extreme of the light that cometh from the glass, and each side of the opacous body's shadow. Wherefore, in each of these lights; or rather in each of their commixtions with darkness, there must be red on the one side, and blew on the other; according to the course of light which we have explicated.  
And thus it falleth out agreeable to the rule we have given, that blue cometh to be on that side of the opacous body's shadow, on which the glass casteth red, and red on that side of it on which the glass casteth blue: likewise when light going through a convexe glass maketh two cones, the edges of the cone betwixt the glass and the point of concourse will appear red, if the room be dark enough: and the edges of the further cone, will appear blue, both for the reason given: for in this case the point of concourse is the strong light betwixt the two cones: of which, that betwixt the glass and the point, is the stronger, that beyond the point, the weaker: and for this very reason, if an opacous body be put in the axis of th●se two cones, both the sides of its picture will be red, if it be held in the first cone which is next to the glass; and both will be blue if the body be situated in the further cone; for both sides being equally situated to the course of the light, within its own cone, there is nothing to vary the colours, but only the strength and the weakness of the two lights of the cones, on this side, and on that side the point of concourse: which point, being in this case the strong and clear light whereof we made general mention in our precedent note, the cone towards the glass and the illuminant, is the stronger side, and the cone from the glass, is the weaker.  
In those cases, where this reason is not concerned, we shall see the victory carried in the question of colours, by the shady side of the opacous body: that is, the blue colour will still appear, on that side of th● opacous bodies shadow that is furthest from the illuminant. But where both causes do concur and contrast for precedence, there the course of the light carrieth it: that is to say, the red will be on that side of the opacous body's shadow, where it is thicker and darker, and blew on the other side where the shadow is not so strong; although the shadow be cast that way that the red appeareth: as is to be seen, when a slender body is placed betwixt the prism and the reflectent body, upon which the light and colours are cast through the prism: and it is evident, that this cause of the course of the shadow, is in itself a weaker cause, than the other of the course of light, and must give way unto it whensoever they encounter (as it can not be expected, but that in all circumstances▪ shadows should to light) because the colours which the glass casteth in this case, are much more faint and dusky then in the other.  
For effects of this later cause, we see that when an opacous body lieth cross the prism, whiles it standeth endway, the red or blue colour, will appear on the upper or lower side of its picture, according as the illuminant is higher or lower then the transuerse opacous body: the blue ever keeping to that side of the picture, that is furthest from the body, and the illuminant that make it: and the red the contrary; likewise if an opacous body be placed out of the axis, in either of the cones we have explicated before, the blue will appear on that side of the picture which is furthest advanced in the way that the shadow is cast: and the red, on the contrary: and so, if the opacous body be placed in the first cone (beside the axis) the red will appear on that side of the picture in the basis of the second cone, which is next to the circumference; and the blue, on that side which is next the axis: but if it be placed on one side of the axis in the second cone, than the blue will appear on that side the picture which is next the circumference; and the red, on that side which is next the centre of the basis of the cone.  

2 A difficult problem resolved touching the prism.  There remaineth yet one difficulty of moment to be determined: which is why, when through a glass, two colours (namely blue and red) are cast from a candle upon a paper or wall, if you put your eye in the place of one of the colours that shineth upon the wall, and so that colour cometh to shine upon your eye, in such sort that an other man who looketh upon it, will see that colour plainly upon your eye, nevertheless, you shall see the other colour in the glass? As for example, if on your eye there shineth a red, you shall see a blue in the glass; and if a blue shineth upon your eye, you shall see a red.  
The reason hereof is, that the colours which appear in the glass, are of the nature of those luminous colours which we first explicated, that arise from looking upon white and black bordering together: for a candle standing in the air, is as it were a white situated between two blacks: the circumstant dusky air, having the nature of a black: so then, that side of the candle which is seen through the thicker part of the glass, appeareth red; and that which is seen through the thinner, appeareth blue: in the same manner as when we look through the glass; whereas, the colours shine contrariwise upon a paper or reflecting object, as we have already declared, together with the reasons of both these appearances; each fitted to its proper case, of looking through the glass upon the luminous object serrownded with darkness, in the one; and of observing the effect wrought by the same luminous object in some medium or upon some reflectent superficies, in the other.  
And to confirm this, if a white paper be set standing hollow before the glass (like half a hollow pillar, whose flat standeth edgewayes towards the glass, so as both the edges may be seen through it) the further edge will seem blue and the nearer will be red; and the like will happen, if the paper be held in the free air parallel to the lower superficies of the glass, without any black carpet to limit both ends of it (which serveth to make the colours the smarter) so that in both cases, the air serveth manifestly for a black; in the first, between the two white edges; and in the second, limiting the two white ends: and by consequence, the air about the candle must likewise serve for two blacks, including the light candle between them.  
Several other delightful experiments of luminous colours I might produce, to confirm the grounds I have laid, for the nature and making of them. But I conceive that these I have mentioned, are abundantly enough for the end I propose unto myself: therefore I will take my leave of this supple and nice subject; referring my Reader (if he be curious to entertain himself with a full variety of such shining wonders) to our ingenious countryman and my worthy friend, Mr. Hall: who at my last being at Liege, showed me there most of the experiences I have mentioned; together with several other very fine and remarkable curiosities concerning light; which he promised me he would shortly publish in a work, that he had already cast and almost finished upon that subject: and in it, I doubt not but he will give entire satisfaction to all the doubts and Problems that may occur in this subject: whereas my little exercise formerly, in making experiments of this kind, and my less conveniency of attempting any now, maketh me content myself with thus spinning of a course third from wool carded me by others, that may run through the whole doctrine of colours, whose causes have hitherto been so much admired: and that it will do so, I am strongly persuaded, both because if I look vpon the causes which I have assigned a priori, me thinks they appear very agreeable to nature and to reason; and if I apply them to the several Phoenomens' which Mr. Hall showed me, and to as many others, as I have otherwise met with, I find they agree exactly with them, and render a full account of them.  
And thus, you have the whole nature of luminous colours, resolved into the mixtion of light and darkness: by the due ordering of which, who hath skill therein, may produce any middle colour he pleaseth: as I myself have seen the experience of infinite changes in such sort made; so that it seemeth unto me, nothing can be more manifest, than that luminous colours are generated in the way that is here delivered. Of which how that gentle and obedient Philosophy of Qualities (readily obedient to what hard task soever you assign it) will render a rational account; and what discreet virtue, it will give the same things to produce different colours, and to make different appearances, merely by such nice changes of situation, I do not well understand: but peradventure the Patroness of it, may say that every such circumstance is a Conditio sine qua non: and therewith (no doubt) their Auditors will be much the wiser in comprehending the particular nature of light, and of the colours that have their origine from it.  

3 Of the rainbow, and how by the colour of any body we may know the composition of the body itself.  The Rainbow, for whose sake most men handle this matter of luminous colours, is generated in the first of the two ways we have delivered for the production of such colours: and hath its origine from refraction, when the eye being at a convenient distance from the refracting body, looketh upon it to discern what appeareth in it. The speculation of which may be found in that excellent discourse of Monsieur des Cartes, which is the sixth of his Meteors; where he hath with great acuratenesse delivered a most ingenious doctrine of this mystery: had not his bad chance of missing in a former principle (as I conceive) somewhat obscured it. For he there giveth the cause so neat, and so justly calculated to the appearances, as no man can doubt but that he hath found out the true reason of this wonder of nature, which hath perplexed so many great wits: as may almost be seen with our very eyes; when looking upon the fresh dew in a sunneshiny morning, we may in due positions perceive the rainbow colours, not three yards distant from us: in which we may distinguish even single drops with their effects. But he having determined the nature of light to consist in motion, and proceeding consequently, he concludeth colours to be but certain kinds of motion: by which I fear it is impossible that any good account should be given of the experiences we see.  
But what we have already said in that point, I conceive is sufficient to give the reader satisfaction therein: and to secure him, that the generation of the colours in the rainbow, as well as all other colours, is likewise reduced to the mingling of light and darkness: which is our principal intent to prove: adding thereunto by way of advertissement, for others whose leisure may permit them to make use thereof, that who shall balance the proportions of luminous colours, may peradventure make himself a step to judge of the natures of those bodies, which really and constantly do wear like dyes; for, the figures of the least parts of such bodies, jointly with the connexion or mingling of them with pores, must of necessity be that which maketh them reflect light unto our eyes, in such proportions, as the luminous colours of their tincture and semblance do.  
For two things are to be considered in bodies, in order to reflecting of light: either the extancies and cavities of them; or their hardness and softness. As for the first; the proportions of light mingled with darkness will be varied, according as the extancies or the cavities do exceed, and as each of them is great or small: since cavities have the nature of darkness, in respect of extancies, as our modern Astronomers do show, when they give account of the face (as some call it) in the orb of the moon. Likewise in regard of soft or of resistent parts, light will be reflected by them, more or less strongly, that is, more or less mingled with darkness; for whereas it reboundeth smartly back, if it striketh upon a hard and a resistent body, and accordingly 〈◊〉 ●hew itself in a bright colour: it must of necessity not reflect at all, 〈…〉 very feebly, if it penetrateth into a body of much humidity, or if chooseth itself in the pores of it▪ and that little which cometh so weakly from it, must consequently appear of a dusky dye: and these two, being all the causes of the great variety of colours we see in bodies, according to the quality of the body, in which the real colour appeareth, it may easily be determined from which of them it proceedeth: and then, by the colour, you may judge of the composition and mixture of the rare and dense parts, which by reflecting light begetteth it.  
In fine, 
4 That all the sensible qualities are real bodies resulting out of several mixtures of rarity and density.  out of all we have hitherto said in this Chapter, we may conclude the primary intent of our so long discourse; which is, that as well the senses of living creatures, as the sensible qualities in bodies, are made by the mixtion of rarity and density, as well as the natural qualities we spoke of in their place: for it can not be denied but that heat and cold, and the other couples or pairs, which beat upon our touch, are the very same as we see in other bodies: the qualities which move our taste and smell, are manifestly a kin and joined with them: light we have concluded to be fire: and of motion (which affecteth our ear) it is not disputable: so that it is evident, how all sensible qualities, are as truly bodies, as those other qualities which we call natural.  
To this we may add, that the proprieties of these sensible qualities, are such as proceed evidently from rarity and density; for (to omit those which our touch taketh notice of, as too plain to be questioned) Physicians judge and determine the natural qualities of meats, and of medecines, and of simples, by their tastes and smells: by those qualities they find out powers in them to do material operations; and such as our instruments for cutting, filing, brushing, and the like, do unto ruder and grosser bodies. All which virtues, being in these instruments by the different tempers of rarity and density, is a convincing argument, that it must be the same causes, which must produce effects of the same kind in their smells and tastes: and as for light, it is known how corporeally it worketh upon our eyes.  
Again, if we look particularly into the composition of the organs of our senses; we shall meet with nothing but such qualities as we find in the composition of all other natural bodies. If we search into our eye, we shall discover in it nothing but diaphaneity, softness, divers colours, and consistencies; which all Anatomists, to explicate, do parallel in other bodies: the like is of our tongue, our nostrils, and our ears. As for our touch; that is so material a sense, and so diffused over the whole body, we can have no difficulty about it. Seeing then that all the qualities we can discover in the organs of our senses, are made by the various minglings of rarity with density, how can we doubt, but that the active powers over these patients, must be of the same nature and kind.  
Again, seeing that the examples above brought, do convince, that the objects of one sense, may be known by an other; who can doubt of a community among them, if not of degree, at ●●e least of the whole kind? As we see that the touch, is the groundwork of all the rest; and consequently, that being evidently corpore●●●, and consisting in a temper of rarity and density, why should we m●●e difficulty in allowing the like of the rest?  
Besides, let us compose of rarity and density, such tempers as we find in our senses; and let us again compose of rarity and density, such actors, as we have determined the qualities, which we call sensible, to be; and will it not manifestly follow, that these two applied to one an other, must produce such effects, as we affirm our senses have? that is, to pass the outward objects, by different degrees, unto an inward receiver.  

5 Why the senses are only five in number: with a conclusion of all the former doctrine concerning them.  Again, let us cast our eyes upon the natural resolution of bodies, and how they move us, and we shall thereby discover, both what the senses are, and why they are just so many, and that they can not be more. For an outward body may move us, either in its own bulk or quantity; or as it worketh upon an other. The first is done by the touch: the second by the ear, when a body moving the air, maketh us take notice of his motion. Now in resolution, there are three active parts proceeding from a body, which have power to move us. The fiery part; which you see worketh upon our eyes, by the virtue of light. The airy part, which we know moveth our nostrils, by being sucked in with the air. And lastly the salt; which dissolveth in water, and so moveth our watery sense; which is our taste.  
And these being all the active parts, that show themselves in the resolution of a body; how can we imagine there should be any more senses to be wrought upon? for what the stable body showeth of itself, will be reduced to the touch: what as it moveth, to hearing: what the resolutions of it, according to the nature of the resolved atoms that fly abroad; will concern the other three senses, as we have declared. And more ways of working, or of active parts, we can not conceive to spring out of the nature of a body.  
Finally, if we cast our eyes upon the intention of nature: to what purpose are our senses, but to bring us into knowledge of the natures of the substances we converse with all? surely, to effect this, there can not be invented a better, or more reasonable expedient, then to bring unto our judgement seat the likenesses or extractes of those substances, in so delicate a model, that they may not be offensive or cumbersome; like so many patterns presented unto us, to know by them, what the whole piece is: for all similitude, is a communication between two things in that quality, wherein there likeness consisteth: and therefore we can not doubt, but that nature hath given us, by the means we have explicated, an essay of all the things in the world, that fall under our commerce, whereby to judge whether they be profitable or nocive unto us; and yet in so delicate and subtle a quantity, as may in no ways be offensive to us, whiles we take our measures to attract what is good, and avoid what is noxious.   

THE TWO AND THIRTIETH CHAPTER. Of sensation, or the motion whereby sense is properly exercised.  
Out of the considerations which we have delivered in these last Chapters, 
1 Monsieur des Cartes his opinion touching sensation.  the Reader may gather the unreasonableness of vulgar Philosophers, who to explicate life and sense, are not content to give us terms without explicating them; but will force us to believe contradictions: telling us, that life consisteth in this, that the same thing hath a power to work upon itself: and that sensation, is a working of the active part of the same sense, upon its passive part; and yet will admit no parts in it: but will have the same indivisible power work upon itself. And this, with such violence and downebearing of all opposition, that they deem him not considerable in the schools, who shall offer only to doubt of what they teach him hereabout; but brand him with the censure of one who knoweth not, and contradicteth the very first principles of Philosophy. And therefore, it is requisite we should look somewhat more particularly into the manner how sensation is made.  
Monsieur des Cartes (who by his great and heroyke attempts, and by showing mankind how to steer and husband their reason to best advantage, hath left us no excuse for being ignorant of any thing worth the knowing) explicating the nature of sense, is of opinion, that the bodies without us, in certain circumstances, do give a blow upon our exterior organs: from whence, by the continuity of the parts, that blow or motion is continued, till it come to our brain and seat of knowledge; upon which it giveth a stroke answerable to that, which the outward sense first received: and there this knock causing a particular effect, according to the particular nature of the motion (which dependeth off the nature of the object that produced it) our soul and mind hath notice, by this means, of every thing that knocketh at our gates: and by the great variety of knocks or motions that our brain feeleth (which ariseth from as great a variety of natures in the objects that cause them) we are enabled, to judge of the nature and conditions of every thing we converse withal.  
As for example: he conceiveth light to be nothing else but a percussion made by the illuminant upon the air, or upon the ethereal substance, which he putteth to be mixed with, and to run through all bodies: which being a continuate medium between the illuminant and our sense; the percussion upon that, striketh also our sense; which he calleth the nerve that reacheth from the place strucken (to wit, from the bottom of our eye) unto the brain. Now, by reason of the continuity of this string or nerve, he conceiveth that the blow which is made upon the outward end of it by the Ether, is conveyed by the other end of it to the brain; that end, striking the brain in the same measure as the Ether struck the other end of it: like the jack of a virginal, which stricketh the sounding cord, according as the musicians hand presseth upon the stop. The part of the brain which is thus struken, he supposeth to be the fantasy, where he deemeth the soul doth reside; and thereby taketh notice of the motion and object that are without. And what is said thus of sight, is to be applied proportionably to the rest of the senses.  
This then is the sum of Monsieur des Cartes his opinion, which he hath very finely expressed, with all the advantages that opposite examples, significant words, and clear method can give unto a witty discourse. Which yet is but a part of the commendations he deserveth, for what he hath done on this particular. He is, over and above all this, the first that I have ever met with, who hath published any conceptions of this nature, whereby to make the operations of sense intelligible. Certainly, this praise will ever belong unto him, that he hath given the first hint of speaking groundedly, and to the purpose upon this subject: and whosoever shall carry it any further (as what important mystery was ever borne and perfected at once?) must acknowledge to have derived his light from him.  

2 The Author's opinion touching sensation.  For my part, I shall so far agree with him, as to allow motion alone to be sufficient to work sensation in us: and not only to allow it sufficient, but also to profess, that not only this, but that no other effect whatsoever can be wrought in us, but motion, and by means of motion. Which is evident out of what we have already delivered, speaking of bodies in general; that all action among them, either is local motion, or else followeth it: and no less evident, out of what we have declared in particular, concerning the operations of the outward senses, and the objects that work upon them: and therefore, whosoever shall in this matter, require any thing further than a difference of motion, he must first seek other instruments in objects to cause it. For, examining from their very origine, the natures of all the bodies we converse withal; we can not find any ground to believe they have power or means to work any thing beyond motion.  
But I shall crave leave to differ from him, in determining what is the subject of this motion, whereby the brain judgeth of the nature of the thing that causeth it. He will allow no local change of any thing in a man, further than certain vibrations of strings, which he giveth the objects to play upon from the very sense up to the brain: and by their different manners of shaking the brain, he will have it know, what kind of thing it is, that striketh the outward sense, without removing any thing within our body from one place to an other. But I shall go the more common way; and make the spirits to be the porters of all news to the brain: only adding thereunto that these news which they carry thither, are material participations of the bodies, that work upon the outward organs of the senses; and passing through them, do mingle themselves with the spirits, and so do go whither they carry them, that is to the brain; unto which, from all parts of the body, they have immediate resort, and a perpetual communication with it.  
So that, to exercise sense (which the latins do call, sentire, but in English we have no one word common to our several particular notions of divers perceptions by sense) is, Our brain to receive an impression from the extern object by the operation or mediation of an organical part made for that purpose, and some one of those which we term an extern sense; from which impression, usually floweth some motion proper to the living creature. And thus you see that the outward senses, are not truly senses, as if the power of sensation were in them: but in an other meaning, to wit, so far as they are instruments of qualifying or conveying the object to the brain.  
Now, 
3 Reasons to persuade the author's opinion.  that the spirits are the instruments of this conveyance, is euident, by what we daily see, that if a man be very attentive to some one extern object (as to the hearing or seeing of something that much delighteth or displeaseth him) he neither heareth or seeth any thing but what his mind is bend vpon; though all that while, his eyes and ears be open, and several of their objects be present, which at other times would affect him. For what can be the reason of this, but that the brain employing the greatest part of his store of spirits about that one object, which so powerfully entertaineth him, the others find very few free for them to imbue with their tincture? And therefore, they have not strength enough to give the brain a sufficient taste of themselves, to make it be observed; nor to bring themselves into a place where they may be distinctly discerned: but striving to get unto it, they lose themselves in the throng of the others, who for that time do besiege the brain closely. Whereas, in Monsieur des Cartes his way (in which no spirits are required) the apprehension must of necessity be carried precisely according to the force of the motion of the extern object.  
This argument I confess, is not so convincing a one against his opinion, but that the necessity of the consequence may be avoided; and an other reason be given for this effect, in Monsieur des Cartes his doctrine: for he may say, that the affection being vehemently bend upon some one object, may cause the motion to be so violent by the addition of inward percussions, that the other coming from the outward sense, being weaker, may be drowned by it; as lesser sounds are by greater, which do forcibly carry our ears their way, and do fill them so entirely, that the others can not get in to be heard: or as the drawing of one man that pulleth backwardly, is not felt when a hundred draw forwardly. Yet this is hard to conceive, considering the great eminency which the present object hath over an absent one, to make itself be felt: whence it followeth, that the multiplication of motion must be extremely increased within, to overtoppe and bear down the motion, caused by a present object actually working without.  
But that which indeed convinceth me to believe I go not wrong in this course, which I have set down for extern bodies working upon our sense and knowledgde: is first, the convenience, and agreeableness to nature, both in the objects and in us, that it should be done in that manner: and next, a difficulty in Monsieur des Cartes his way, which me thinketh, maketh it impossible that his should be true. And then, his being absolutely the best of any I have hitherto met withal, and mine supplying what his falleth short in, and being sufficient to perform the effects we see: I shall not think I do amiss in believing my own to be true, till some body else show a better.  

4 That vital spirits are the immediate instruments of sensation by conveying sensible qualities to the brain.  Let us examine these considerations one after an other. It is manifest by what we have already established, that there is a perpetual flux of little parts or atoms out of all sensible bodies, that are composed of the four Elements, and are here in the sphere of continual motion by action and passion: and such it is, that in all probability these little parts can not choose but get in at the doors of our bodies, and mingle themselves with the spirits that are in our nerves. Which if they do, it is unavoidable, but that of necessity th●y must make some motion in the brain; as by the explication we have made of our outward senses, is manifest: and the brain being the source and origine of all such motion in the animal, as is termed voluntary; this stroke of the object, will have the power to cause some variation in its motions that are of that nature: and by consequence, must be a sensation, for, that change which being made in the brain by the object, is cause of voluntary motion in the animal, is that, which we call sensation.  
But we shall have best satisfaction, by considering how it fareth with every sense in particular. It is plain, that our touch or feeling is affected by the little bodies of heat, or cold, or the like, which are squeezed or evaporated from the object; and do get into our flesh, and consequently, do mingle themselves with our spirits: and accordingly, our hand is heated with the flood of subtle fire, which from a great one without, streameth into it: and is benumbed with multitudes of little bodies of cold, that settle in it. All which little bodies, of heat, or of cold or of what kind soever they be, when they are once got in, must needs mingle themselves with the spirits they meet with in the nerve: and consequently, must go along with them up to the brain: for the channel of the nerve being so little, that the most accurate inspectours of nature can not distinguish any little cavity or hole running along the substance of it: and the spirits which ebb and flow in those channels, being so infinitely subtle, and in so small a quantity, as such channels can contain: it is evident, that an ato●e of insensible bigness, is sufficient to imbue the whole length and quantity of spirit that is in one nerve: and that atom, by reason of the subtlety of the liquor it is immersed in, is presently and as it were instantly, diffused through the whole substance of it: the source therefore of that liquor being in the brain, it can not be doubted, but that the force of the extern object, must needs affect the brain according to the quality of the said atom: that is, give a motion, or knock, conformable to its own nature.  
As for our taste, it is as plain, that the little parts expressed out of the body which affecteth it, do mingle themselves with the liquor that being in the tongue, is continuate to the spirits: and then, by our former argument it is euident, they must reach unto the brain. And for our smelling, there is nothing can hinder odours from having immediate passage up to our brain, when by our nose, they are once gotten into our head.  
In our hearing, there is a little more difficulty: for sound being nothing but a motion of the air, 
5 How sound is conveyed to the brain by vital spirits.  which striketh our ear; it may seem more than needeth, to send any corporeal substance into the brain: and that it is sufficient, that the vibrations of the outward air, shaking the drum of the ear, do give a like motion to the air within the ear, that on the inside toucheth the tympane: and so this air, thus moved, shaketh and beateth upon the brain. But this, I conceive, will not serve the turn; for if there were no more, but an actual motion, in the making of hearing; I do not see, how sounds could be conserved in the memory: since of necessity, motion must always reside in some body; which argument, we shall press anon, against Monsieur des Cartes his opinion for the rest of the senses.  
Out of this difficulty, the very inspection of the parts within the ear, seemeth to lead us: for had there been nothing necessary besides motion, the very striking of the outward air against the tympanum, would have been sufficient without any other particular and extraordinary organization, to have produced sounds, and to have carried their motions up to the brain: as we see the head of a drum bringeth the motions of the earth unto our ear, when we lay it thereunto, as we have formerly delivered. But Anatomists, find other tools and instruments, that seem fit to work and forge bodies withal; which we can not imagine, nature made in vain. There is a hammer and an anvil: whereof the hammer, striking upon the anvil, must of necessity beat off such little parts of the brainy steames, as flying about do light and stick upon the top of the anvil: these by the trembling of the air following its course, can not miss of being carried up to that part of the brain, whereunto the air within the ear is driven by the impulse of the sound: and as soon as they have given their knock, they rebound back again into the celles of the brain, fitted for harbours to such winged messenger: where they remain lodged in quietness, till they be called for again, to renew the effect which the sound did make at the first: and the various blows which the hammer striketh, according to the various vibrations of the tympanum (unto which the hammer is fastened; and therefore is governed by its motions) must needs make great difference of biggenesses, and cause great variety of smartnesses of motion, in the little bodies which they forge.  
The last sense is of seeing; whose action we can not doubt, is performed by the reflection of light unto our eye, 
6 How colours are conveyed to the brain by vital spirits.  from the bodies which we see: and this light, cometh impregnated with a tincture drawn from the superficies of the object it is reflected from; that is, it bringeth along with it, several of the little atoms, which of themselves do stream, and it cutteth from the body it struck upon and reboundeth from; and they, mingling themselves with the light, do in company of it get into the eye: whose fabric, is fit to gather and unite those species, as you may see by the anatomy of it: and from the eye, their journey is but a short one to the brain: in which, we can not suspect that they should lose their force; considering, how others that come from organs further off, do conserve theirs: and likewise considering the nature of the optic spirits, which are conceived to be the most refined of all that are in man's body.  
Now, that light is mingled with such little atoms issuing out of the bodies from which it is reflected; appeareth evidently enough, out of what we have Said, of the nature and operations of fire and light: and it seemeth to be confirmed, by what I have often observed in some chambers where people seldom come: which having their windows to the south, so as the sun lieth upon them a great part of the day in his greatest strength, and their curtains being continually drawn over them, the glass becometh died very deep of the same colour the curtain is of: which can proceed from no other cause, but that the beams which shoot through the glass, being reflected back from the courtaine, do take something along with them from the superficies of it; which being of a more solid corpulence than they, is left behind (as it were in the strainer) when they come to press themselves through passages and pores, too little for it to accompany them in: and so those atoms of colour, do stick upon the glass which they can not penetrate.  
An other confirmation of it is, that in certain positions, the sun reflecting from strong colours, will cast that very colour upon some other place; as I have often experienced in lively scarlet, and cloth of other smart colours: and this, not in that gloating wise, as it maketh colours of pure light, but like a true real dye; and so, as the colour will appear the same to a man, wheresoever he standeth.  

7 Reasons against Monsieur des Cartes his opinion.  Having thus showed in all our senses, the conveniency and agreeableness of our opinion with nature; (which hath been deduced, out of the nature of the objects, the nature of our spirits, the nature and situation of our nerves, and lastly from the property of our brain:) our next consideration shall be, of the difficulty that occurreth in Mr. des Cartes his opinion. First we know not how to reconcile the repugnancies appearing in his position of the motion of the Ether; especially in light: for that Ethereal substance being extreme rare, must perforce by either extreme liquid, or extreme brittle: if the first; it can not choose but bow and be pressed into folds, and bodies of unequal motions, swimming every where in it; and so it is impossible, that it should bring unto the eye any constant apparition of the first mover.  
But let us suppose there were no such general interruptions, every where encountering, and disturbing the conveyance of the first simple motion: yet, how can we conceive that a push, given so far off, in so liquid an element, can continue its force so far? We see that the greatest thunders and concussions, which at any time happen among us, can not drive and impart their impulse the ten thousandeth part of the vast distance, which the sun is removed from our eye; and can we imagine, that a little touch of that luminous body, should make an impression upon us, by moving an other so extremely liquid and subtle, as the Ether is supposed; which like an immense Ocean, tossed with all varieties of motion, lieth between it and us.  
But admit there were no difficulty nor repugnance in the medium, to convey unto us a stroke, made upon it by the sun's motion: let us at the least examine, what kind of motions we must allow in the sun, to cause this effect. Certainly, it must needs be a motion towards us, or else it can not strick and drive the medium forward, to make it stri●ke upon us. And if it be so, either the sun must perpetually be coming nearer and nearer to us; or else it must ever and anon be receding backwards, as well as moving forwardly. Both which, are too chymericall for so great a wit to conceit.  
Now, if the Ether be brittle, it must needs reflect upon every rub in meeteth with in its way, and must be broken and shivered by every body that moveth across it: and therefore, must always make an uncertain and most disorderly percussion upon the eye.  
Then again; after it is arrived to the sense, it is no ways likely it should be conveyed from thence to the brain, or that nature intended such a kind of instrument as a nerve, to continue a precise determinate motion: for if you consider how a lute string, or any other such medium conveyeth a motion made in it; you will find, that to do it well and clearly, it must be stretched throughout to its full extent, w●●h ● kind of stiffness: whereas our nerves are not strait, but lie crooked in our body; and are very lither, till upon occasion spirits coming into them, do swell them out. Besides, they are bound to flesh, and to other parts of the body; which being cessible, must needs dull the stroke, and not permit it to be carried far. And lastly, the nerves are subject to be at every turn contracted and dilated, upon their own account, without any relation to the strokes beating upon them from an extern agent: which is by no means, a convenient disposition for a body, th●t is to be the porter of any simple motion; which should always lie watching in great quietness, to observe scrupulously, and exactly the arrant he is to carry: so that for my part, I can not conceive, nature intended any such effect, by mediation of the sinews.  

8 That the symptoms of the palsy do no way confirm Monsieur des Cartes his opinion.  But Monsieur des Cartes endeavoureth to confirm his opinion, by what useth to fall out in palsies, when a man looseth the strength of moving his hands, or other members, and nevertheless retaineth his feeling: which h● imputeth to the remaining entire of the strings of the nerves, whiles the spirits are someway defective. To this we may answer, by producing examples of the contrary in some men, who have had the motion of their limbs entire and no ways prejudiced, but have had no feeling at all, quite over their whole case of skin and flesh: as particularly a servant in the college of Physicians in London, whom the learned Harvey (one of his Masters) hath told me, was exceeding strong to labour, and very able to carry any necessary burden, and to remove things dexterously, according to the occasion: and yet he was so void of feeling that he used to grind his hands against the walls, and against course lumber, when he was employed to rummage any; in so much, that they would run with blood, through grating of the skin, without his feeling of what occasioned it.  
In our way, the reason of both these conditions of people, (the paralitike, and the insensible) is easy to be rendered: for they proceed out of the divers disposition of the animal spirits in these parts: which if they thicken too much, and become very gross, they are not capable of transmitting the subtle messengers of the outward world, unto the tribunal of the brain, to judge of them. On the other side, if they be too subtle, they neither have, nor give power to swell the skin, and so to draw the muscles to their heads. And surely Monsieur des Cartes taketh the wrong way, in the reason he giveth of the palsy: for it proceedeth out of abundance of humours; which clogging the nerves, rendereth them washy, and maketh them lose their dryness, and become lither and consequently, unfit and unable, in his opinion, for sensation (which requireth stiffness) as well as for motion.  
Yet besides all these, one difficulty more remaineth against this doctrine, 
9 That Monsieur des Cartes his opinion, can not give a good account, how things are conserved in the memory.  more insuperable (if I mistake not) than any thing, or all together we have yet said: which is, how the memory should conserve any thing in it, and represent bodies to us, when our fancy calleth for them, if nothing but motions do come into the brain. For it is impossible, that in so divisible a subject as the spirits, motion should be conserved any long time: as we see evidently in the air; through which move a flaming taper never so swiftly, and as soon as you set it down, almost in the very instant, the flame of it leaveth being driven or shaken on one side, and goeth quietly and evenly up its ordinary course: thereby showing, that the motion of the air, which for the time was violent, is all of a sudden quieted and at rest: for otherwise, the flame of the taper would blaze that way the air were moved. Assuredly, the bodies that have power to conserve motion long, must be dry and hard ones. Nor yet can such, conserve it very long, after the cause which made it, ceaseth from its operation. How then can we imagine, that such a multitude of pure motions, as the memory must be stored withal for the use and service of a man, can be kept on foot in his brain, without confusion; and for so long a time as his memory is able to extend unto? Consider a lessen played upon the lute or virginals; and think with yourself, what power there is, or can be in nature, to conserve this lesson ever continually playing: and reflect, that if the impressions upon the common sense are nothing else but such things, than they must be actually conserved, always actually moving in our head▪ to the end they be immediately produced, whensoever it pleaseth our will to call for them.  
And if peradventure it should be replied, that it is not necessary the motions themselves ●hould always be conserved in actual being; but that it is sufficient, there be certain causes kept on foot in our heads, which are apt to reduce these motions into act, whensoever there is occasion of them: all I shall say hereunto is▪ that this is merely a voluntary position, and that there appeareth no ground, for these motions to make and constitute such causes; since we neither meet with any instruments, nor discover any signs, whereby we may be induced to believe or understand any such operation.  
It may be viged, that divers sounds are by diseases oftentimes made in out ears, and appearances of colours in our fantasy. But first, these colours and sounds, are not artificial ones, and disposed and ordered by choice and judgement; for no story hath mentioned, that by a disease any man ever heard twenty verses of Virgil, or an ode of Horace in his ears: or that ever any man s●w f●ire pictures in his fancy, by means of a blow given him upon his eye And secondly, such colours and sounds as are objected, are nothing else, but (in the first case) the motion of humour● in a man's eye by a blow upon it; which humours have the virtue of making light, in such sort as we s●e sea wate● hath, when it is clashed together: and (in the second case) a cold vapour in certain parts of the brain, which causeth beatings or motion there; whence proceedeth ●he imitation of sounds: so that these examples do nothing advantage that party, thence to infer that the similitudes of objects, may be made in the common sense, without any real bodies reserved for that end.  
Yet I intent not to exclude motion from any commerce with ●he memory▪ no more than I have done from sensation. For I will not only grant, that all our remembering is performed by the means of motion; but I will also acknowledge, that (in men) it is▪ for the most part, of nothing e●se but of motion. For what are words, but motion? And words are the chiefest objects of our remembrance. It is true, we can, if we will, remember things in their own shapes, as well as by th● words that express them; but experience telleth us, that in our familiar conversation, and in the ordinary exercise of our memory, we remember and make use of the words, rather than of the things themselves.  
Besides, the impressions which are made upon all our other senses, as well as upon our hearing, are likewise for the most part of things in motion: as if we have occasion to make a conception of a man, or of a horse, we ordinarily conceive him walking, or speaking, or eating, or using some motion in time: and as these impressions are successively made upon the outward organs; so are they successively carried into the fantasy, and by like succession, are delivered over into the memory: from whence, when they are called back again into the fantasy, they move likewise successively; so that in truth, all our memory will be of motion; or at the least, of bodies in motion: yet it is not chiefly of motion, but of the things that are moved; unless it be, when we remember words: and how those motions, do frame bodies which move in the brain, we have already touched.   

THE THREE AND THERTIETH CHAPTER. Of Memory.  
But how are these things conserved in the brain? And how do they revive in the fantasy, 
1 How things are conserved in the memory.  the same motions by which they came in thither at the first? Monsieur des Cartes hath put us in hope of an explication: and were I so happy, as to have seen that work of his, which the world of learned men so much longeth for; I assure myself, I should herein receive great help and furtherance by it. Although withal, I must profess, I can not understand how it is possible, that any determinate motion should long be preserved untainted in the brain; where there must be such a multitude of other motions in the way, to mingle with it, and bring all into confusion. One day I hope this jewel will be exposed to public view, both to do the Author right, and to instruct the world.  
In the mean time, let us see what our own principles afford us. We have resolved, that sensation is not a pure driving of the animal spirits, or of some penetrable body in which they swim, against that part of the brain, where knowledge resideth: but that it is indeed the driving thither of solid material bodies (exceeding little ones) that come from the objects themselues. Which position, if it be true, it followeth that these bodies must rebound from thence upon other parts of the brain; where at the length, they find some vacant cell, in which they keep their ranks and files, in great quiett and order; all such sticking together, and keeping company with one an other, that entered in together: and there they lie still and are at rest, until they be stirred up, either by the natural appetite, (which is the ordinary course of beasts) or by chance, or by the will of the man in whom they are, upon the occasions he meeteth with of searching into them. Any of these three causes raiseth them up, and giveth them the motion that is proper to them; which is the same with that, whereby they came in at the first: for (as Galilaeus teacheth us) every body hath a particular motion peculiarly proper to it, when nothing diverteth it: and then they slide successively, through the fantasy in the same manner, as when they presented themselves to it the first time. After which, if it require them no more; they return gently to their quiett habitation in some other part of the brain, from whence they were called and summoned by the fantasies messengers, the spirits: but if it have longer use of them, and would view them better than once passing through permitteth; then they are turned back again, and lead a new over their course, as often as is requisite: like a horse, that a rider paceth sundry times along by him that he showeth him to; whiles he is attentive to mark every part and motion in him.  
But let us examine a little more particularly, 
2 How things conserved in the memory are brought back in to the fantasy.  how the causes we have assigned, do raise these bodies that rest in the memory, and do bring them to the fantasy. The middlemost of them (namely chance) needeth no looking into, because the principles that govern it, are uncertain ones. But the first, and the last (which are, the appetite, and the will) have a power (which we will explicate hereafter) of moving the brain and the nerves depending of it, conveniently and agreably to their disposition. Out of which it followeth, that the little similitudes, which are in the caves of the brain wheeling and swimming about (almost in such sort, as you see in the washing of currants or of rise, by the winding about and circular turning of the cook's hand) divers sorts of bodies do go their courses for a pretty while; so that the most ordinary objects, can not choose but present themselves quickly, because there are many of them, and are every where scattered about: but others that are fewer, are longer ere they come in view: much like as in a pair of beads, that containing more little ones then great ones, if you pluck to you the string they all hang upon, you shall meet with many more of one sort, then of the other.  
Now, as soon as the brain hath lighted on any of those it seeketh for, it putteth as it were a stop upon the motion of that; or at the least, it moveth it so, that it goeth not far away, and is revocable at will: and seemeth like a bait to draw into the fantasy others belonging unto the same thing, either through similitude of nature, or by their connexion in the impression: and by this means hindereth other objects, not pertinent to the work the fancy hath in hand, from offering themselves unseasonably in the multitudes that otherwise they would do. But if the fancy should have mistaken one object for an other, by reason of some resemblance they have between themselves; than it shaketh again the liquid medium they all float in, and rooseth every species lu●king in remotest corners, and runneth over the whole beaderoule of them: and continueth this inquisition and motion, till either it be satisfied with retriuing at length what it required, or that it be grown weary with tossing about the multitude of little inhabitants in its numerous empire, and so giveth over the search, unwillingly and displeasedly.  

3 A Confirmation of the former doctrine.  Now, that these things be as we have declared, will appear out of the following considerations; first, we see that things of quite different natures, if they come in together, are remembered together: upon which principle the whole art of memory dependeth: such things, can not any way be comprised under certain heads, nor be linked together by order and consequence, or by any resemblance to one an other: and therefore all their connexion must be, that as they came in together into the fantasy, so they remain together in the same place in the memory: and their first coupling, must proceed from the action that bound them together, in driving them in together.  
Next, we may observe, that when a man seeketh and tumbleth in his memory for any thing he would retrieve, he hath first some common and confused notion of it: and sometimes he hath a kind of flasking or fadeing likeness of it; much what, as when in striving ro remember a name, men use to say, it is at their tongues end: and this showeth, that he attracteth those things he desireth, and hath use of, by the likeness of something belonging to them. In like manner, when hunger maketh one think of meat, or thirst maketh one dream of drink, or in other such occasions, wherein the natural appetite stirreth objects in the memory and bringeth them to the fantasy; it is manifest, that the spirits informing the brain of the defect and pain, which several parts of the body do endure, for want of their due nourishment; it giveth a motion to the hart, which sendeth other spirits up to supply the brain, for what service it will order them: by which, the brain being fortified, it followeth the pursuit of what the living creature is in want of; until the distempered parts be reduced into their due state, by a more solid enjoying of it.  

4 How things renewed in the fantasy, return with the same circumstances that they had at first.  Now, why objects that are drawn out of the memory, do use to appear in the fantasy, with all the same circumstances which accompanied them at the time when the sense did send them thither, (as when in the remembrance of a friend, we consider him in some place, and at a certain time, and doing some determinate action) the reason is, that the same body, being in the same medium, must necessarily have the same kind of motion; and so consequently, must make the same impression upon the same subject. The medium which these bodies move in (that is, the memory) is a liquid vaporous substance, in which they float and swim at liberty.  
Now, in such a kind of medium, all the bodies that are of one nature, will easily gather together, if nothing disturb them: for as when a tuned lute string is strucken, that string by communicating a determinate species of vibration to the air round about it, shaketh other strings, within the compass of the moved air; not all, of what extent soever, but only such, as by their natural motion, would cause like curlinges, and folds in the air, as the other doth; according to what Galileus hath at large declared: even so, when some atom in the brain is moved, all the rest there about, which are apt to be wasted with a like undulation, must needs be moved in chief: and so they moving, whiles the others of different motions, that having nothing to raise them, do either lie quiett or move very little in respect of the former; it is no wonder if they assemble together; and (by the proper course of the brain) do meet at the common rendezvous of the fantasy.  
And therefore the more impressions, 
5 How the memory of things past is lost, or confounded: and how it is repaired again.  that are made from the same object upon the sense; the more participations of it, will be gathered together in the memory: and the stronger impressions, it will upon occasion make in the fantasy: and themselves will be the stronger to resist any cause that shall strive to deface them. For we see that multitude of objects, overwhelmeth the memory; and putteth out, or at the least, maketh unprofitable, those that are seldomst thought on. The reason of which is, that they being little in quantity, because there are but few species of them; they can never strike the seat of knowledge, but in company of others; which being more and greater, do make the impression follow their nature against the lesser: and in tract of time, things seldom thought of, do grow to have but a maimed and confused shape in the memory; and at length are quite forgotten. Which happeneth, because in the liquid medium, they are apt to moulder away, if they be not often repaired: which mouldering and defacing, is helped on by the shocks they receive from other bodies: like as in a magasin, a thing that were not regarded, but were carelessly rumbled up and down, to make room for others, and all things were promiscuously thrown upon it; it would soon be bruised and crushed into a misseshapen form, and in the end be broken all in pieces.  
Now, the repairing of any thing in the memory, is done, by receiving new impressions from the object; or in its absence, by thinking strongly of it: which is an assembling, and due piecing together of the several particles of bodies, appertaining to the same matter. But sometimes it happeneth, that when the right one can not be found entire, nor all the orderly pieces of it, be retriued with their just correspondance to one an other; the fancy maketh up a new one in the place of it: which afterwards, upon presence of the object, appeareth to have been mistaken: and yet the memory, till then, keepeth quietly and unquessionedly for the true object, what either, the thought, or chance, mingling several parts, had patched up together.  
And from hence, we may discern, how, the losing or confounding of one's memory, may happen either by sickness, that distemper the spirits in the brain, and disorder their motions; or by some blows on the head, whereby a man is astonished, and all things seem to turn round with him. Of all which effects, the causes are easy to be found in these suppositions we have laid.   

THE FOUR AND THERTIETH CHAPTER: Of voluntary motion: Natural faculties: and passions.  

1 Of what matter the brain is composed.  HItherto we have laboured to convey the object into the brain: but when it is there, let us see what further effects it causeth: and how that action, which we call Voluntary motion, doth proceed from the brain. For the discovery whereof, we are to note, that the brain is a substance composed of watery parts mingled with earthy ones: which kind of substances we see are usually full of strings: and so in strong hard beer, and in vinegar, and in other liquors of the l●ke nature, we see (if they be exposed to the sun) little long flakes, which make an appearance of worms or magates floating about. The reason whereof is, that some dry parts of such liquors, are of themselves as it w●re hairy o● sleasy, that is, have little downy parts, such as you see upon the legs of flies, or upon caterpillars, or in little looks of wool; by which they easily catch and stick to other little parts of the like nature, that come near unto them: and if the liquor be moved, (as it is in the boiling of beer, or making of vinegar by the heat of the sun) they become long strings; because the liquor breaketh the ties which are cross to its motion: but such as lie along the stream, or rather the bubbling up, do maintain themselves in unity, and peradventure grow stronger, by the winding or folding of the end of one part with an other: and in their tumbling and rolling still in the same course, the downy hairs are crushed in, and the body groweth long and round, as happeneth to a lump of dough, or wax, or wool, rolled a while in one uniform course. And so, coming to our purpose, we see that the brain, and all that is made of it, is stringy; witness, the membranes, the flesh, the bones, etc. But of all the rest, those which be called fibers, are most stringy: and the nerves seem to be but an assembly of them: for although the nerves be but a great multitude of strings lying in a cluster; nevertheless, by the consent of Physicians and Anatomists, they are held to be of the very substance of the brain, dried to a firmer consistence than it is in the head.  
This heap of strings (as we may call it) is enclosed in an outside made of membranes; whose frame, we need not here display: only we may note, that it is very apt and fit to stretch; and after stretching, to return again to its own just length Next, we are to consider, how the brain is of a nature apt to swell and to sink again: even so much, that Fallopius reporteth, it doth swell according to the increase of the moon: which whether it be true or no; there can be no doubt, but that it being of a substance which is full of skins and strings, is capable of being stretched, and of swelling upon light occasions; and of falling or sinking again upon as light: as being easily penetrable by vapours and by liquors, whose nature it is, to swell and to extend that which they enter into. Out of which it followeth, that it must be the nature of the nerves to do the like: and indeed, so much the more, by how much more dry they are then the brain: for we see that (to a certain measure) drier things are more capable of extension by the ingression of wet, then moist things are; because these are not capable of receiving much more wet into them.  
These things being premised; 
2 What is voluntary motion.  let us imagine that the brain being first swelled, it doth afterwards contract itself; and it must of necessity follow, that seeing the nerves are all open towards the brain (though their concavities can not be discerned) the spirits and moisture which are in the brain, must needs be pressed into the nerves: which being already stored with spirits, sufficiently to the proportion of their hard skins; this addition will make them swell and grow hard, as a balloon doth, which being competently full of air, hath nevertheless more air pressed into it.  
Since therefore, the masters of Anatomy do teach us, that in every muscle there is a nerve, which is spread into a number of little branches along that muscle; it must follow, that if these little branches be swollen, the flesh likewise of that muscle, must also needs be swollen. Now the muscle having both its ends fastened, the one in a greater bone, the other in a lesser; and there being least resistance on that part, where the bone is lesser, and more movable; the swelling of the muscle can not choose, but draw the little bone towards the great one; and by consequence, move that little bone: and this is that, which Philosophers usually call Voluntary motion: for since our knowledge remaineth in the brain, whatsoever is done by knowledge, must be done by the brain; and most of what the brain worketh for the common service of the living creature, proceedeth also from knowledge; that is, from the motion of the fancy, which we have expressed.  
This matter being thus far declared, 
3 What those powers are which are called natural faculties.  we may now enter upon the explication of certain effects; which peradventure might have challenged room, in the precedent Chapter; but indeed, could not well be handled without first supposing this last discourse: and it is, what is meaned by those powers, that are called natural faculties: the which howsoever in their particulars they be manifold in a living creature, yet whensoever any one of them is resolved, it appeareth to be compounded of some of these five; to wit, the attractive, the retentive, the secretive the concoctive, and the expulsive faculty.  
Of which, the attractive, the secretive, and the concoctive do not seem to belong unto the nerves, for although we may conceive that the part of the animal doth turn itself towards the thing which it attracteth; nevertheless, that very turning seemeth not to be done by virtue of the muscles, and of the nerves, but rather in a natural way, as the motion of the hart is performed, in such sort as we have formerly declared: as for example, if the stomach when it is greedy of meat, draweth itself up towards the throat, it seemeth rather to be a kind of dryness and of warping, such as we see in bladders or in leather either by fire or by cold, which make them shrivel up and grow hard; then that it is a true faculty of the living creature to seek after meat.  

4 How the attractive and secretive faculties, work.  Nor need we extend our discourse any further about these three faculties; seeing that we have already declared in common, how attraction, drying, and mixture of active bodies with passive ones, is performed; which needeth but applying unto these particulars, to explicate fully their natures: as for example; if the kidneys draw the matter of urine unto them out of the veins, it may be by any of the following three manners, to wit, either by draught, wet, or by steam. For if the serous parts that are in the blood which runneth in the veins, do touch some dry parts conformable to their nature, tending towards the kidneys▪ they will infallibly adhere more to those dry parts, then to the rest of the blood. Which if they do in so great a quantity, that they reach to other further parts more dry than these, they will leave the first parts to go to the second: and thus by little, and little, will draw a line of urine from the blood, if the blood do abound with it: and the nearer it cometh to the kidneys, the stronger still the attraction will be.  
The like will happen, if the serosity which is in the blood, do touch some part wetted with a like serosity, or where such hath lately passed; for as we see that water will run more easily upon a wet part of a board or a stone then upon dry one; so you can not doubt, but that if the serous part, which is mixed with the blood, do light upon a current of its own nature, it will stick more to that, then to the current of the blood; and so part from the blood, to go that way which the current of its own nature goeth.  
Besides, it can not be doubted, but that from the kidneys, and from the passages between the kidneys and the veins, in which the blood is conveyed, there ariseth a steam: whose nature is, to incorporate itself with serous matter, out of whose body it hath been extracted. This steam therefore, flying still to the serous blood which passeth by, must of necessity precipitate (as I may say) the serous parts of that blood▪ or rather must filter them out of their main stock; and so will make them run in that current, from which itself doth flow. And thus you see how Attraction and Secretion are made: for the drawing of the serosity without drawing the blood, is the parting of the urine from the blood. And this example, of the kidneys operation, may be applied to the attractions of all the other parts.  
Now, 
5 Concerning the concocti●● faculty.  the concoctive faculty (which is the last of the three we took together) consisteth of two parts: the one is, as it were a drying of the humour, which is to be concocted; the other is, a mingling the substance of the vessel in which the humour is concocted, with the humour itself: for as if you boil divers kinds of liquors in brass pans, the pans will taint the liquor with the quality of the brass; and therefore Physicians forbid the use of such, in the boiling of several medicines: so much more in a living creatures body, there can be no doubt, but that the vessel in which any humour is concocted, doth give a tincture thereunto. Now concoction consisting in these two, it is evident, what the concoctive virtue is; to wit, heat, and ●he specifical property of the vessel which by heat is mingled with the humour.  
There remain yet, 
6 Concerning the retentive and expulsive faculties.  the retentive and the expulsive faculties to be discoursed of. Whereof one kind, is manisfestly belonging to the voluntary motion which we have declared: namely that retention, and that expulsion, which we ordinarily make of the gross excrements either of meat, or of drink, or of other humours, either from our head, or from our stomach, or from our lungs; for it is manifestly done, partly by taking in of wind, and partly by compressing of some parts and opening of others: as Galen showeth in his curious book de usu partium.  
An other kind of retention and expulsion, in which we have no sense when it is made, (or if we have, it is of a thing done in us without our will, though peradventure we may voluntarily advance it) is made by the swelling of fibers in certain parts, through the confluence of humours to them, (as in our stomach it happeneth, by the drink and the juice of the meat that is in it) which swelling, closeth up the passages by which the contained substance should go out (as the moistening of the strings, and mouth of a purse, almost shutteth it) until in some (for example the stomach, after a meal) the humour being attenuated by little and little, getteth out subtilely; and so leaving less weight in the stomach, the bag which weighth down lower, than the nether orifice at which the digested meat issueth, riseth a little: and this rising of it, is also furthered by the wrinkling up and shortening of the upper part of the stomach which still returneth into its natural corrugation, as the mass of liquid meat leaveth soaking it (which it doth by degrees, still as more and more goeth out; and so what remaineth filleth less place, and reacheth not so high of the stomach:) and thus at length, the residue and thicker substance of the meat, after the thinnest is got out in steam, and the middling part is boiled over in liquor, cometh to press and gravitate wholly vpon the orifice of the stomach; which being then helped by the figure and lying of the rest of the stomach, and its strings and mouth relaxing, by having the juice which swollen them, squeezed out of them; it openeth itself, and giveth way unto that which lay so heavy upon it, to tumble out. In others (for example, in a woman with child) the enclosed substance, (retained first by such a course of nature as we have set down) breaketh itself a passage by force, and openeth the orifice at which it is to go out by violence, when all circumstances are ripe according to nature's institution.  

7 Concerning expulsion made by Physic.  But yet there is the expulsion which is made by physic, that requireth a little declaration. It is of five kinds: vomiting, purging by stool, by urine, sweeting, and salivation. Every one of which, seemeth to consist of two parts, namely the disposition of the thing to be purged, and the motion of the nerves or fibers for the expulsion: as for example, when the Physician giveth a purge, it worketh two things; the one is, to make some certain humour more liquid and purgeable then the rest; the other is, to make the stomach or belly, suck or vent this humour For the first, the property of the purge must be, to precipitate that humour out of the rest of the blood; or if it be thick, to dissolve it that it may run easily. For the second, it ordinarily heateth the stomach; and by that means, it causeth the stomach to suck out of the veins, and so to draw from all parts of the body. Besides this, it ordinarily filleth the belly with wind, which occasioneth those gripe men feel when they take physic; and is cause of the guts discharging those humours, which otherwise they would retain.  
The like of this happeneth in salivation; for the humours are by the same means brought to the stomach, and thence sublimed up to be spitten out: as we see in those, who taking Mercury into their body, either in substance or in smoke, or by application, do vent cold humours from any part; the Mercury rising from all the body up to the mouth of the patient, as to the helm of a sublimatory: and the like some say of Tobacco.  
As for vomiting, it is in a manner wholly the operation of the fibers, provoked by the feeling of some inconvenient body, which maketh the stomach wrinkle itself, and work and strive to cast out what offendeth it.  
Sweeting seemeth to be caused, by the heating of some introus body by the stomach; which being of subtle parts, is by heat dispersed from the middle to the circumference; and carrieth with it light humours, which turn into water as they come out into the air. And thus you see in general, and as much as concerneth us to declare, what the natural faculties are: and this, according to Galen his own mind: who affirmeth, that these faculties do follow the complexion, or the temper of the parts of a man's body.  

8 How the brain is moved to work voluntary motion.  Having explicated how voluntary motion proceedeth from the brain: our next consideration ought to be, to examine what it is; that such an object, as we brought, by means of the senses, into the brain from without, doth contribute to make the brain apply itself to work such voluntary motion. To which purpose, we will go a step or two back, to meet the object at its entrance into the sense; and from thence accompany it in all its journey and motions onwardly. The object which striketh at the senses door, and getting in, mingleth itself with the spirits it findeth there; is either cōforme and agreeable to the nature and temper of those spirits, or it is not: that is to say in short, it is either pleasing or displeasing to the living creature: or it may be of a third kind, which being neither of these, we may term indifferent. In which sort soever the object affect the sense, the spirits carry it immediately to the brain; unless some distemper or strong thought, or other accident hinder them.  
Now, if the object be of the third kind; that is, be indiffent; as soon as it hath strucken the brain, it reboundeth to the circle of the memory: and there, being speedily joined to others of its own nature, it findeth them annexed to some pleasing or displeasing thing, or it doth not: if not, in beasts it serveth to little use: and in men, it remaineth there until it be called for. But if, either in its own nature, it be pleasing or displeasing, or afterwards, in the memory it became joined to some pleasing or annoying fellowship; presently, the hart is sensible of it: for the hart being joined to the brain by strait and large nerves, full of strong spirits which ascend from the hart; it is impossible, but that it must have some communication with those motions, which pass in the brain: upon which the hart, or rather the spirits about it, is either dilated or compressed.  
And these motions, may be either totally of one kind, or moderated, and allayed by the mixture of its contrary: if of the former sort; one of them we call joy, the other grief; which do continue about the hart (and peradventure do oppress it if they be in the utmost extremity) without sending any due proportion of spirits to the brain until they settle a little, and grow more moderate.  
Now, when these motions are moderate; they immediately send up some abundance of spirits to the brain: which if they be in a convenient proportion, they are by the brain thrust into such nerves as are fit to receive them: and swelling them, they give motion to the muscles and tendons that are fastened to them: and they do move the whole body, or what part of it is under command of those nerves, that are thus filled and swelled with spirits by the brain.  
If the object was conformable to the living creature, than the brain sendeth spirits into such nerves, as ca●●y the body to it: but if otherwise, it causeth a motion of aversion or flight from it. To the cause of this latter, we give the name of Fear: and the other, that carrieth one to the pursuit of the object, we call Hope. Anger, or Audacity, is mixed of both these; for it seeketh to avoid an evil by embracing and overcoming it: and proceedeth out of abundance of spirits.  
Now, if the proportion of spirits sent from the hart, be too great for the brain, it hindereth or perverteth the due operation both in man and beast.  
All which it will not be amiss to open a little more particularly: and first; 
9 Why pleasing objects do dilate the spirits, and displeasing one's contract them.  why painful or displeasing objects, do contract the spirits, and grateful ones, do contrary wise, dilate them? It is, because the good of the hart consisteth in life, that is in heat and moisture: and it is the nature of heat, to dilate itself in moisture; whereas cold and dry things, do contract the bodies they work upon: and such are enemies to the nature of men and beasts: and accordingly experience, as well as reason, teacheth us, that all objects, which be naturally good, are such as be hot and moist in the due proportion to the creature that is affected and pleased with them.  
Now, the living creature being composed of the same principles as the world round about him is; and the hart being an abridgement of the whole sensible creature; and being moreover full of blood, and that very hot; it cometh to pass, that if any of these little extracts of the outward world, do arrive to the hot blood about the hart, it worketh in this blood such like an effect, as we see a drop of water falling into a glass of wine; which is presently dispersed into a competent compass of the wine: so that any little object, must needs make a notable motion in the blood about the hart.  
This motion, according to the nature of the object, will be either conformable or contrary; unless it be so little a one, as no effect will follow of it; and then, it is of that kind, which above we called indifferent. If the ensuing effect, be connatural to the hart, there riseth a motion of a certain fume about the hart; which motion we call pleasure; and it never faileth of accompanying all those motions which are good, as joy, Love, Hope and the like: but if the motion be displeasing; there is likewise a common sense of a heaviness about the hart▪ which we call grief: and it is common to sorrow, fear, hate, and the like.  
Now it is manifest by experience, that th●se motions are all of them different ones, and do strike against divers of those parts of our body which encompass the hart: out of which striking followeth that the spirits sent from the hart, do affect the brain diversely; and are by it, conveyed into divers nerves, and so do set divers members in action. Whence followeth, that certain members are generally moved upon the motion of such a passion in the hart, especially in beast, ●ho have a more determinate course of working, than man hath: and if sometimes we see variety, even in beasts, upon knowledge of the circumstances, we may easily guess at the causes of that variety: the particularities of all which motions, we remit to Physicians and to Anatomists: advertising only, that the fume of pleasure, and the heaviness of grief, do plainly show, that the first motions do participate of dilatation▪ and the latter of compression. 
10 Concerning the five senses for what use and end they are.   
Thus you see, how by the senses, a living creature becometh judge of what is good, and of what is bad for him: which operation, is performed more perfectly in beasts; and especially in those, who live in the free air, remote from humane conversation, (for their senses are fresh and untainted, as nature made them) then in men. Yet without doubt nature hath been as favourable in this particular to men, as unto them; were it not, that with disorder and excess, we corrupt and oppress our senses: as appeareth evidently by the story we have recorded of john of Liege: as also by the ordinary practice of some Hermit's in the deserts, who by their taste or smell, would presently be informed whether the herbs, and roots, and fruits th●y met withal, were good or hurtful for them, though they never before had had trial of them.  
Of which excellency of the senses, there remaineth in us only some dim sparks, in those qualities which we call sympathies and antipathies: whereof the reasons are plain, out of our late discourse: and are nothing el●e, but a conformity or opposition of a living creature, by some individual property of it, unto some body without it: in such sort, as its conformity or opposition unto things by its specifical qualities, is termed natural or against nature. But of this we shall discourse more at large hereafter.  
Thus it appeareth, how the senses are seated in us, principally for the end of moving us to, or from objects, that are good for us, or hurtful to us. But though our Reader be content to allow this intent of nature, in our three inferior senses; yet he may peradventure not be satisfied, how the two more noble ones (the hearing and the seeing) do cause such motions to, or from objects, as are requisite to be in living creatures for the preservation of them: for (may he say) how can a man, by only seeing an object, or by hearing the sound of it, tell what qualities it is embued withal? Or what motion of liking or disliking, can be caused in his hart, by his mere receiving the visible species of an object at his eyes, or by his ears hearing some noise it maketh? And if there be no such motion there, what should occasion him, to prosecute or avoid that object? When he tasteth, or smelleth, or toucheth a thing, he findeth it sweet, or bitter, or stinking, or hot, or cold; and is therewith either pleased or displeased: but when he only seeth or heareth it, what liking or disliking can he have of it, in order to the preservation of his nature?  
The solution of this difficulty, may in part appear out of what we have already said. But for the most part, the objects of th●se two nobler senses, d●●moue us, by being joined in the memory with some other thing that did either please or displease some of the other three senses. And from thence it is, that the motion of going to embrace the object, or aversion from it, doth immediately proceed: as when a dog seeth a man that useth to give him meat, the species of the man coming into his fancy, calleth out of his memory the others which are of the same nature, and are former participations of that man, as well as this f●esh one is: but these are joined with specieses of meat; because at other times, they did use to come in together: and therefore the meat being a good unto him, and causing him (in the manner we have said) to move towards it; it will follow that the dog will presently move towards that man, and express a contentedness in being with him. And this is the ground of all assuefaction in beasts, and of making them capable of receiving any instructions.   

THE FIVE AND THERTIETH CHAPTER. Of the material instruments of Knowledge and Passion; of the several effects of Passions; of Pain and Pleasure; and how the vital spirits are sent from the brain into the intended parts of the body, without mistaking their way.  

1 That Septum Lucidum is the seat of the fancy.  TO conclude this great business, which concerneth all the mutations and motions, that are made by outward Agents in a living creature, it will not be amiss, to take a short and general survey of the material instruments, which concur to this effect. Whereof the brain being the principal, or at least, the first and next of the principals; we may take notice that it containeth, towards the middle of its substance, four concavities, as some do count them: but in truth, these four, are but one great concavity, in which, four, as it were, divers rooms, may be distinguished. The nether part of these concavities, is very unequal, having joined unto it, a kind of net, wrought by the entangling of certain little arteries, and of small emanations from a Sinus, which are interwoven together. Besides this, it is full of kernels, which do make it yet more uneven.  
Now, two rooms of this great concavity, are divided by a little body, somewhat like a skin, (though more fryable) which of itself is clear; but there it is somewhat dimmed, by reason that hanging a little slack, it somewhat shriveleth together: and this, Anatomists do call Septum Lucidum, or speculum; and is a different body from all the rest that are in the brain. This transparent body, hangeth as it were straightwardes, from the forehead towards the hinder part of the head: and divideth the hollow of the brain, as far as it reacheth, into the right and the left ventricles.  
This part seemeth to me, (after weighing all circumstances, and considering all the conveniencies, and fittenesses) to be that, and only that, in which the fancy or common sense resideth: though Monsieur des Cartes hath rather chosen a kernel to place it in. The reasons of my assertions are; first, that it is in the middle of the brain, which is the most convenient situation to receive the messages from all our body, that do come by nerves, some from before, and some from behind. Secondly, that with its two sides, it seemeth to be conveniently opposed to all such of our senses, as are double; the one of them sending its little messengers or atoms, to give it advertissements on one side, the other on the other side; so that it is capable of receiving impression indifferently from both. Again, by the nature of the body, it seemeth more fit to receive all differences of motion, than any other body near it. It is also most comformable to the nature of the eye; which being our principal outward sense, must needs be in the next degree to that, which is elevated a strain above our outward senses. Fiftly, it is of a single and peculiar nature▪ whereas the kernels are many, and all of them of the same condition, quality, and appearance. Sixtly, it is seated in the very hollow of the brain; which of necessity must be the place and receptacle where the specieses and similitudes of things do reside; and where they are moved and tumbled up and down, when we think of many things. And lastly, the situation we put our head in, when we think earnestly of any thing, favoureth this opinion: for than we hang our head forwards, as it were forcing the specieses to settle towards our forehead, that from thence they may rebound, and work upon this diaphanous substance.  
This then supposed, 
2 What causeth us to remember not only the object itself; but also that we have thought of it before.  let us consider, that the atoms or likenesses of bodies, having given their touch upon this Septum or Speculum, do thence retire back into the concavities, and do stick (as by chance it happeneth) in some of the inequalities they encounter with there. But if some wind or forcible steam, should break into these caves, and as it were brush and sweep them over; it must follow, that these little bodies will loosen themselves, and begin to play in the vapour which filleth this hollow place: and so floating up and down, come a new to strike and work upon the Speculum or fantasy: which being also a soluble body, many times these atoms striking upon it, do carry some little corporeal substance from it sticking upon them: whence ensueth, that they returning again with those tinctures or participations of the very substance of the fantasy; do make us remember, not only the objects themselves, but also that we have thought of them before.  
Further we are to know, 
3 How the motions of the fantasy, are derived to the hart.  that all the nerves of the brain, have their beginnings not far of from this speculum: of which we shall take a more particular consideration of two, that are called the sixth pair or couple: which pair hath this singularity, that it beginneth in a great many little branches, that presently grow together, and make two great ones contained within one skin. Now this being the property of a sense (which requireth to have many fibers in it, to the end that it may be easily and vigorously strucken, by many parts of the object lighting upon many parts of those little fibers) it giveth us to understand, that this sixth couple hath a particular nature, conformable to the nature of an extern sense; and that the Architect who placed it there, intended by the several conduits of it, to give notice unto some part they go unto, of what passeth in the brain: and accordingly one branch of this nerve, reacheth to the hart; not only to the Pericardium, as Galen thought, but even to the very substance of the hart itself, as later Anatomists have discovered: by which we plainly see how the motion which the senses do make in the Speculum, may be derived down to the hart.  

4 Of pain and pleasure.  Now therefore let us consider, what effects the motions so conveyed from the brain, will work in the hart. First remembering how all that moveth the hart, is either pain or pleasure (though we do not use to call it pain, but grief, when the evil of sense moveth us only by memory, and not by being actually in the sense) and then calling to mind, how pain (as Naturalistes' teach us) consisteth in some division of a nerve, (which they call Solutio continui: and must be in a nerve; for that no solution can be the cause of pain, without sense, nor sense be without nerves; and therefore this solution must needs be in nerves, to have it prove painful,) we may conclude, that the effect which we call pain, is nothing else but a compression: for although this solution of continuity may seem to be a dilatation; yet in truth, it is a compression, in the part where the evil is, which happeneth unto it in the same manner as we showed (when we spoke of the motion of restitution) it doth to stiff bodies, that by violence are compressed and drawn into a less capacious figure, than their nature affecteth, and return into their own state as soon as the mastering violence leaveth them at liberty.  
Pleasure therefore, must be contrary to this, and consist in a moderate dilatation; for an immoderate one, would cause a compression in some adherent parts; and there would become pain. And conformable to this, we experience, that generally they are hard things which breed pain unto us; and that these which breed pleasure, are oily and soft; as meats, and odours, which are sweet to the taste and smell; and soft substances, which are grateful to the touch: the excess of all which proveth offensive and painful; so that from the extremity of pleasure, one entereth presently upon the confines of pain.  
Now then let us consider, how the little similitudes of bodies, which from without do come into the fantasy, must of necessity work there, according to their little power, effects proportionable to what they wrought first in the outward senses, from whence, they were conveyed to the brain: for the senses (that is the nerves) and the Septum Lucidum, having both of them their origine from the very substance of the brain, and differing only in degrees of purity and refinement, the same object must needs workelike effects in both, compressing or dilating them proportionably to one an other: which compression or dilatation, is not pain or pleasure, as it is in the outward sense; but as it is reported to the hart: and that, being the seat of all pains or pleasures wrought in other parts, and that (as it were) dyeth them into those qualities, is not capable of feeling either itself: so that the strokes of any little similitudes upon the fantasy, do make only compressions or dilatations there, not pains or pleasures.  

5 Of Passion.  Now their bodies or similitudes, if they be reverberated from the fantasy or septum Lucidum, upon the little roots of the nerves of the sixth couple, which go to the hart, they must needs work there a proportionable impression to what they wrought upon the fancy, either compressing or dilating it; and the hart being extremely passive, by reason of its exceeding tenderness and heat; can not choose but change its motion, at the least in part, if not in whole: and this with relation to two causes; the one the disposition of the hart itself; the other, the vehemency of the stroke.  
This change of motion and different beating of the hart, is that which properly is called passion: and is ever accompanied with pleasure or with grief, according to the nature of the impression, that either contracteth or dilateth the hart and the spirirs about it: and is discovered by the beating of the arteries and of the pulse. Conformable whereunto, Physicians do tell us, that every passion hath a distinct pulse.  
These pulses are divided in common, 
6 Of several pulses caused by passions.  by abundance, or by want of spirits: yet in both kinds, they may have common differences; for in abundance, the pulse may be quick or slow, regular or irregular, equal or unequal: and the like may happen in defect of spirits; according to the motions of the hart, which are their causes. Again, the object by being present or absent, nearer or further off, maketh the stroke greater or lesser: and accordingly, varyeth the motion of the hart.  
Let us then call to mind, how we have formerly declared, that life consisteth in heat and humidity; and that these two joined together, do make a thing great: and we may conclude, that of necessity the motion which is most lively, must have a great, full, and large stroke; like the euen rolling waves of a wide and smooth sea; and not too quick or smart, like the breaches of a narrow Fretum, agitated by tempestuous winds. From this, other motions may vary either by excess, or by deficiency: the first maketh the stroke become smart, violent, and thick: the other slackeneth it, and maketh it grow little, slow, weak, and thin, or seldom.  
And if we look into the motions of our hart, we shall see these three differences of them, follow three several chief passions. The first, followeth the passion of joy: the second, the passion of anger: and the third the passion of grief. Nor need we look any further into the causes of these several motions; for we see that joy and grief, following the stroke of sense, the one of them must consist in an oily dilatation: that is, the spirits about the hart, must be dilated by a gentle, large, great, and sweet motion, in a moderation between velocity and slowness: the other contrariwise, following the stroke of sense in pain, as the first did in pleasure, must contract the spirits; and consequently make their motion or stroke become little, and deficient from all the properties we have above set down.  
As for anger, the motion following that passion, is, when the abundance of spirits in the hart is a little checked by the contrary stroke of sense, but presently overcometh that opposition: and then, as we see a hindered water, or a man, that suddenly or forcibly break through what withstood their motion, go on with a greater violence than they did, and as it were precipitately: so the hart, having overcome the contraction, which the sense made in it, dilateth itself with a fury, and maketh its motion smart and vehement. Whence also it followeth, that the spirits grow hotter than they were: and accordingly, it is often seen, that in the scolding of a woman, and in the irritation of a dog, if ever now and then, one thwart them, and interpose a little opposition, their fury will be so sharpened and heightened, that the woman will be transported beyond all limits of reason, and the dog will be made mad with nothing else done to him, but angering him at convenient times: and some men likewise, have by sleight oppositions, iterated speedily upon them, before their spirits could relent their vehement motion (and therefore, must still increase it) been angered into fevers.  
This passion of anger, seemeth almost to be solitary on the side of excess beyond joy: which is, as it were the standard and perfection of all passions▪ as light or whiteness, is of all colours: but on the otherside, of deficiency, there are several middle passions, which participate more or less of joy and grief: as particularly those two famous ones, which govern man's life, Hope and Fear. Concerning which, Physicians tell us, that the pulse or beating of fear, is quick, hard, and unequal: unto which I conceive we may safely add, that it must also be small and feeble▪ the perfection of joy, decreasing in it on one side, to wit, from greatness and largeness; but not entirely; so that a kind of quickness supplieth in part the other defect. Hope on the other side, is in such sort defective from joy, that nevertheless it hath a kind of constancy, and moderate quantity, and regularity in its motion: and therefore is accounted to be the least hurtful of all the passions, and that which most prolongeth man's life. And thus you see how those motions, which we call passions, are engendered in the hart, and what they are.  
Let us then in the next place consider, what will follow in the rest of the body, out of these varieties of passions, 
7 Of several other effects caused naturally in the body by passions.  once raised in the hart and sent into the brain. It is euident, that according to the nature and quality of these motions, the hart must needs in every one of them, void out of itself into the arteries, a greater or lesser quantity of blood, and that in divers fashions: and the arteries which lie fittest to receive these sudden egestions of blood, are those which go into the brain: whose course being directly upwardly, we can not doubt, but that it is the hottest and subtlest part of the blood, and the fullest of spirits, that flieth that way. These spirits then running a long and perplexed journey up and down in the brain, by various meanders and anfractuosities, are there mingled with the humid steam of the brain itself, and are therewith cooled; and do come at the last, to smoke at liberty in the hollow ventricles of the brain, by reeking out of the little arterial branches, that do weave the plexus choroides, or net we spoke of ere while: and they being now grown heavy, do fall (by their natural course) into that part or process of the brain, which is called medulla spinalis, or the marrow of the back bone: which being all beset by the nerves that run through the body, it can not happen otherwise, but that these thickened and descending spirits, must either fall themselves into those nerves, or else press into them other spirits which are before them, that without such new force to drive them violently forwardly, would have slided down more leisurely. Now, this motion being downwards, and meeting with no obstacle till it arrive unto its utmost period that way, the lowest nerves are those, which naturally do feel the communication of these spirits first.  
But it is true, if the flowing tide of them be great and plentiful, all the other nerves will also be so suddenly filled, upon the filling of the lowermost, that the succession of their swellings, will hardly be perceptible: as a sudden and violent inundation of water, seemeth to rise on the sides of the channel, as it doth at the milldamme; though reason assureth us it must begin there, because there it is first stopped.  
On the contrary side, if the spirits be few, they may be in such a proportion, as to fill only the lower nerves, and to communicate little of themselues to any of the others. And this is the case in the passion of fear: which being stored with fewer spirits, then any other passion that causeth a motion in the body, it moveth the legs most; and so carrieth the animal that is afraid, with violence from the object that affrighteth him. Although in truth, it is a faint hope of escaping, mingled with fear, which begetteth this motion: for when fear is single, and at its height, it stoppeth all motion by contracting the spirits, and thence is called stupor; as well as grief, for the same reason: and accordingly we see extreme cowards in the extremity of their fear, have not the courage to run away, no more then to defend or help themselves by any other motions.  
But if there be more abundance of spirits; then the upper parts are also moved, as well as the legs; whose motion contributeth to defence: but the brain itself, and the senses which are in the head, being the first in the course of this flood of spirits, that is sent from the hart to the head; it is impossible, but that some part of them, should be pressed into the nerves of those senses, and so will make the animal vigilant and attentive to the cause of its fear or grief.  
But if the fear be so great, that it contracteth all the spirits, and quite hindereth their motion, (as in the case we touched above) than it leaveth also the nerves of the senses destitute of spirits; and so by too strong apprehension of a danger, the animal neither seeth nor apprehendeth it: but as easily precipitateth itself into it, as it happeneth to avoid it; being merely governed by chance; and may peradventure seem valiant, through extremity of fear.  
And thus you see in common, how all the natural operations of the body, do follow by natural consequence out of the passions of the mind: without needing to attribute discourse or reason, either to men or beasts to perform them. Although at the first sight, some of them may appear unto those that look not into their principles and true causes, to flow from a source of intelligence: whereas it is evident by what we have laid open, they all proceed from the due ranging and ordering of quantitative parts, so or so proportioned by rarity and density. And there is no doubt, but who would follow this search deeply, might certainly retrieve the reasons of all those external motions, which we see use to accompany the several passions in men and Beasts. But for our intent we have said enough, to show by what kind or order and course of nature, they may be effected (without confining ourselves over scrupulously to every circumstance that we have touched) and to give a hint, whereby others that will make this inquiry their task, may compile an entire, and well grounded and intelligible doctrine of this matter.  
Only we will add one advertissement more; which is, that these external motions caused by passion, are of two kinds: for some of them are as it were the beginnings of the actions, which nature intendeth to have follow out of the passions that cause them: but others are only bare signs of the passions that produce them, and are made by the connexion of parts unnecessary for the main action that is to follow out of the passion, with other parts that by the passion are necessarily moved: as for example, when an hungry man's mouth watereth at the sight of good meat; it is a kind of beginning of eating, or of preparation for eating for when we eat, nature draweth a moisture into our mouth, to humectate our meat, and to convey the taste of it into the nerves of the tongue, which are to make report of it unto the brain: but when we laugh, the motion of our face aimeth at no further end, and followeth only by the connexion of those muscles, which draw the face in such a sort, unto some inward parts, that are moved by the passion, out of which laughing proceedeth.  

8 Of the diaphragma.  But we must not leave this subject without some mention of the diaphragma: into which the other branch of those nerves, that are called of the sixth conjugation, doth come: for the first branch we have said goeth into the hart, and carrieth thither the objects that come into the brain: and this, we shall find, carrieth back to the brain the passion or motion, which by the object is raised in the hart. Concerning this part of our body, you are to note, that it is a muscolous membrane, which in the middle of it hath a sinnewy circle; whereunto is fastened the case of the hart, called the Pericardium. This Diaphragma is very sensible, receiving its virtue of feeling from the above mentioned branch of the sixth couple of nerves: and being of a trembling nature, is by our respiration kept in continual motion: and flappeth upon all occasions, as a drum head would do, if it were slack and moist; or as a sail would do, that were brought into the wind.  
Out of this description of it, it is obvious to conceive, that all the changes of motion in the hart, must needs be expressed in the Diaphragma. For the hart beating upon the Pericardium, and the Pericardium being joined to the Diaphragma; such jogs and vibrations must needs be imprinted and echoed there, as are form in the hart: which from thence, can not choose but be carried to the brain by the sixth couple of nerves. And thus it cometh about, that we feel and have sensation of all the passions, that are moved in our hart. Which peradventure is the reason, why the greeks do call this part 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉; and from it derive the verb 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, that in latin signifieth Sapere, with us, to savour or to like: for by this part of our body, we have a liking of any object, or a motion of inclination towards it: from whence 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 is derived, by composition of 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, with 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉: for a prudent man is he, that liketh, and is moved to compass wholesome and good things. Which Etymology of the word, seemeth unto me more natural, then from the frenzy, from whence some derive it; because a great distemper or inflammation in the Diaphragma, often causeth that disease.  
Now, 
9 Concerning pain and pleasure caused by the memory of things past.  because the object is conveyed from the brain to the hart some part of its way, by the same passage, as the motion of the hart is reconueyed back to the brain▪ it must of necessity follow, that who is more attentive to outward sense, doth less consider or reflect vpon his passion; and who is more attentive to observe, and be gowerned by what passeth in his hart, is less wrought upon by external things. For if his fantasy draweth strongly unto it, the emanations from outward agents upon the senses, the stream of those emanations will descend so strongly from the overfilled fantasy into the hart, that it will hinder the ascent of any fewer and weaker spirits by the same pipe. But if the current do set strongest upwardly, from the hart by the Diaphragma to the brain, than it will so fill the pipe by which it ascendeth, that little of a weaker tide, can make a contrary eddy water in the same channel.  
And by this means, nature effecteth a second pleasure or pain in a living creature, which moveth it (oftentimes very powerfully) in absence of the primary object: as we may observe, when thinking of any pleasing or displeasing action, we find about our hart a motion which enticeth us to it, or averteth us from it: for as the first pleasure was occasioned by the stroke, which the object applied to the outward sense, made upon the fantasy, (which can judge of nothing without being strucken by it) so the second pleasure springeth from the spirits moved in the hart, by messengers from the brain, which by the Diaphragma do rebound a stroke back again upon the fantasy. And from hence it proceedeth, that memory delighteth or afflicteth us; and that we think of past things with sweetness or with remorse: and thereby assuefaction is wrought in beasts, as far as the appetitive part doth contribute thereunto, to perfect what was begun in their cognoscitive part, by the ingression of corporeal speciefes into their fantasy, in order to the same effect, as we have touched before.  

10 How so small bodies as atoms are, can cause so great motions in the hart.  But now let us examine, how so small a quantity of a body, as cometh from an object into our sense, can be the cause of so great a motion about our hart. To which purpose we are to remember, that this motion is performed in the most subtle and thin substance, that can be imagined: they are the vital spirits, that do all this work; which are so subtle, so agile, and so hot, that they may in some sort be termed fire. Now if we reflect how violent fire is, we need not wonder at the sudden and great motion of these passions.  
But we must further take notice, that they are not in the greatest excess, but where the living creature hath been long enured and exercised unto them, either directly or indirectly: so that they arrive not to that pitch so much out of the power of the agent, as out of the preparation and disposition of the patient; as when cold water hath been often heated by extinguishing red hot irons in it, after some repetitions a few quenchinges will reduce it from cold to boiling, that at the first would scarce have made it lukewarm: and accordingly we see a hart, that for a long time hath loved, and vehemently hath desired enjoying, is transported in a high degree, at the least sight and renuance of strokes from its beloved object; and is as much dejected, upon any the least deprivation of it: for to such an object, the living creature is hurried away by a force much resembling the gravity or celerity of a dense body, that is set on running down a steep hill; unto which, the only taking away of a weak let or the least stop, giveth a precipitate course; not out of the force of what is done to it, but out of the force which was formerly in the thing, though for the present it lay there undiscovered: and so likewise in these cases, the object rather giveth the occasion of the violent motion, than the force or power to it.  

11 How the vital spirits sent from the brain, do run to the intended part of the body without mistake.  These things being thus determined, some peradventure may ask, how it cometh to pass, that the spirits which cause motion, being sent on their arrant by the brain, do always hit the right way, and light duly into those very sinews, which move the living creature according as is requisite for its nature? Since all the passages are open, what is it that governeth them, so as they never mistake, and the animal is never driven towards harm, instead of flying from it? Who is their guide in these obscure paths? But it were to impute ignorance to the maker, to think that he framed all the passages alike, and so every one of them, promiscuously apt to receive into them, all sorts of spirits howsoever they be moved: and therefore, we may assure ourselves, that since in these diversities of occasions, there are likewise divers kinds of motions from the hart● either there is proportionable unto them, divers kinds of passages fit to receive and entertain the spirits, according to the condition they are in, so as the passages which are aiusted to one kind of spirits, will not admit any of an other nature: or else, the first motions of liking or disliking in the hart, which (as we have said) do cause a swelling or a contraction of it against this or that part; doth stop and hinder the the entrance of the spirits into some sinews, and doth open others, and driveth the spirits into them: so as in the end, by a result of a chain of swellings and contractions of several parts successively one against an other, the due motions of prosecution or aversion are brought about.  
As for example; an object that affecteth the hart with liking, by dilating the spirits about the hart, sendeth some into the optic nerves, and maketh the living creature turn his eye towards it and keep, it steady upon what he desireth as chose, if he dislike and fear it, he naturally turneth his eye and head from it. Now, of this motion of the eye and head, may depend the running to the thing in one case, and the running from it in the other: for the turning of the neck one way, may open a passage for the spirits into those sinews, which carry the rest of the body towards the object: and the turning of it to the other side, may open other sinews, which shall work a contrary effect, and carry the animal from the object: and the moving of those sinews, which at the first do turn the neck, doth proceed from the quality and number of the spirits that ascend from the hart, and from the region of the hart from whence they are sent: according to the variety whereof, there are divers sinews fitted to receive them.  
To make up which discourse, we may call to mind, what we have said a little above, concerning the motions caused in the external parts of the body, by passion moving within: as when fear mingled with hope, giveth a motion to the legs, anger to the arms and hands, and all the rest of the body, as well as to the legs; and all of them, an attention in the outward senses; which nevertheless perverteth every one of their functions, if the passion be in extremity. And then surely, we may satisfy ourselves, that either this, or some way like it (which I leave unto the curious in Anatomy to settle with exactenesse; for it is enough for my intent, to show in gross how these operations may be done, without calling in some incomprehensible qualities to our aid) is the course of nature in motions, where no other cause interueneth, besides the object working upon the sense: which all the while it doth, it is the office of the eye of fantasy or of common sense, to lie ever open; still watching to observe what warnings the outward senses do send unto him; that accordingly he may direct and change, the motions of the hart and of the whole body.  
But if the object do make violent impressions upon the sense; 
12 How men are blinded by Passion.  and the hart, being then vehemently moved, do there upon send abundance of spirits up to the brain; this multitude of spirits thronging upon the common sense, oppresseth it (as we have already said) in such sort, that the notice which the sense giveth of particular circumstances, can not prevail to any effect in the brain: and thus by the misguidance of the hart, the work of nature is disordered: which when it happeneth, we express in short, by saying that passion blindeth the creature, in whom such violent and disorderly motions have course; for passion is nothing else, but a motion of the blood and spirits about the hart; and is the preparation or beginning of the animals working; as we have above particularly displayed.  
And thus you see in common, how the circuit is made from the object to the sense, and from it by the common sense and fantasy, to the hart; and from the hart back again to the brain; which then setteth on work those organs or parts the animal is to make use of in that occasion: and they either bring him to, or carry him from the object, that at the first caused all this motion, and in the end becometh the period of it.   

THE SIX AND THERTIETH CHAPTER. Of some actions of beasts, that seem to be formal acts of reason, as doubting, resolving, inventing.  

1 The order and connexion of the subsequent Chapters.  IN the last Chapter the foundations are laid, and the way is opened, for the discovering how all operations which proceed from nature and passion, are performed among living creatures: and therefore, I conceive I have thereby sufficiently complied with the obligation of my intention: which is but to express and show in common, how all the actions of sensible bodies may be reduced to local motion, and to material application of one boy unto an other, in a like manner (though in a different degree) as those motions which we see in liveliest bodies. Yet because among such animals as pass for irrational, there happen some operations of so admirable a strain, as resemble very much the highest effects which proceed from a man: I think it not amiss, to give some further light, by extending my discourse to some more particulars than hitherto I have done; whereby the course and way how they are performed, may be more clearly and easily looked into: and the rather, because I have met with some men, who either wanting patience to bestow on thoughts of this kind so much time as is necessary for the due scanning of them; or else through a promptitude of nature, passing swiftly from the effect they look upon in gross, to the most obvious seeming cause; do suddenly and strongly resolve, that beasts use discourse upon occasions, and are endued with reason.  
This I intent not to do quite in particular, for that were to write the history of every particular animal: but will content myself with touching the causes in common; yet in such sort, that the indifferent Reader may be satisfied of a possibility, that these effects may proceed from material causes: and that I have pointed out the way, to those who are more curious, and have the patience and leisure to observe diligently what passeth among beasts, how they may trace these effects from step to step, until at length they discover their true causes.  
To begin then; I conceive we may reduce all those actions of beasts, which seem admirable, and above the reach of an irrational animal, unto three or four several heads. The first may be of such, as seem to be the very practice of reason, as doubting, resolving, inventing and the like. The next shall be of such, as by docility or practise beasts do oftentimes arrive unto. In the third place, we will consider certain continuate actions of a long tract of time, so orderly performed by them, as that discourse and rational knowledge seem clearly to shine through them. And lastly we will cast our eye upon some others, which seem to be even above the reason that is in man himself, as the knowing of things which the sense never had impression of before, a prescience of future events, providences, and the like.  
As for the first: 
2 From whence proceedeth the doubting of beasts.  the doubting of beasts, and their long wavering sometimes between objects that draw them several ways, and at the last their resolving upon some one of them, and their steady pursuance of that afterwards; will not be matter of hard digestion to him, that shall have well relished and meditated upon the contents of the last Chapter: for it is evident, that if several objects of different natures do at the same time present themselves unto a living creature, they must of necessity make divers impressions in the hart of it, proportionable unto the causes from whence they proceed: so that if one of them be a motion of hope, and the other be of fear; it can not choose but follow thence, that what one of them beginneth, the other will presently break off: by which means it will come to pass, that in the beasts hart there must needs be such wavinge, as we may observe in the sea, when at the beginning of a tide of stood, it meeteth with a bank that checketh the coming in of the waves, and for a while, beateth them back as fast as they press upon it; they offer at getting over it, and by and by retire back again from the steepness of it, as though they were apprehensive of some danger on the other side; and then again attempt it a fresh: and thus continue labouring, one while one way, an other while an other; until at the length the flood increasing, the water seemeth to grow bolder, and breaketh a main over the bank, and then floweth on, till it meeteth with an other, that resisteth it, as the first did: and thus you see, how the sea can doubt and resolve, without any discoursing. In the like manner it fareth with the hart of a beast (whose motions do steer the rest of his body) when it beateth betwixt hope and fear, or between any other two contrary passions, without requiring any other principles from whence to deduce it, than those we have already explicated.  
But now to speak of their invention; 
3 Concerning the invention of Foxes and other beasts.  I must confess, that among several of them, there appeareth so much cunning in laying of their plots (which when they have compassed, they seem to grow careless and to unbend their attention, as having obtained what with earnestness they desired) that one might think they wrought by design, and had a distinct view of an end; for the effecting of which, they used discourse to choose the likeliest means.  
To this purpose the subtleties of the fox are of most note. They say he useth to lie as if he were dead; thereby to make hens and ducks come boldly to him. That in the night, when his body is unseen, he will fix his eyes upon poultry, and so make them come down to him from their rooste. That to rid himself of the fleas that afflict him in the summer, he will sink his body by little and little into the water, while the fleas creep up to his head (to save themselves from drowning) and from thence to a bough he holdeth in his mouth, and will then swim away, leaving them there. That to cozen the badger of his earth, he will piss in it; as knowing that the rank smell of his urine, will drive the oath cleanelier beast to quit it. That when dogs are close upon him, and catching at him, he will piss upon his tail, and by firking that up and down, will endeavour (you may believe) to make their eyes smart, and so retard their pursuit, that he may escape from them.  
And there are particular stories, that express yet more cunning than all these: as of a fox, that being sore hunted, hanged himself by the teeth among dead vermin in a warren; until the dogs were passed by him, and had lost him. Of an other, that in the like distress, would take into his mouth a broom bush growing upon a steep cliff on the side hand near his den (which had an other way to it, easy enough of access) and by help of that, would securely cast himself into his hole; whiles the dogs that followed him hastily, and were ignorant of the danger, would break their necks down the rocks.  
It is said, that in Thracia, the country people so know whether the rivers that are frozen in the winter, will bear them or no, by marking whether the foxes venture boldly over them, or retire after they have laid their ears to the ice, to listen whether or no they can hear the noise of the water running under it: from whence you may imagine they collect, that if they hear the current of the stream, the ice must needs be thin; and consequently dangerous to trust their weight unto it.  
And to busy myself no longer with their subtleties, I will conclude with a famous tale of one of these crafty animals; that having killed a goose on the other side of the river, and being desirous to swim over with it, to carry it to his den, before he would attempt it (lest his prey might prove too heavy for him to swim withal, and so he might lose it) he first weighed the goose with a piece of wood, and then tried to carry that over the river, whiles he left his goose behind in a safe place; which when he perceived he was able to do with ease, he then came back again, and ventured over with his heavy bird.  
They say it is the nature of the jacatray to hide itself, and imitate the voice of such beasts, as it useth to pray upon; which maketh them come to him, as to one of their own fellows; and then he seizeth upon them and devoureth them.  
The jaccall, that hath a subtle sent, hunteth after beasts; and in the chase, by his barking guideth the lion, (whose nose is not so good) till they overtake what they hunt; which peradventure would be too strong for the jaccall; but the lion killeth the quarry, and having first fed himself, leaveth the jaccall his share: and so between them both, by the one's dexterity, and by the others strength, they get meat for nourishment of them both.  
Like stories are recorded of some fishes. And every day we see the inventions of beasts to save themselves from catching: as hares, when they are hunted, seek always to confound the sent; sometimes by taking hedges, other whiles waters; sometimes running among sheep and other beasts of stronger scents; sometimes making doubles, and treading the same path over and over; and sometimes leaping with great jumps hither and thither, before they betake themselves to their rest; that so the continuatenesse of the scent may not lead dogs to their form.  
Now, to penetrate into the causes of these and of such like actions; we may remember, 
4 Of foxes that catch hens by lying under their roost, and by gazing upon them.  how we showed in the last Chapter, that the beating of the hart worketh two things: the one is, that it turneth about the specieses, or little corporeities (streaming from outward objects) which remain in the memory: the other is, that it is always pressing on to some motion or other: out of which it happeneth, that when the ordinary ways of getting victuals, or of escaping from enemies, do fail a creature whose constitution is active; it lighteth sometimes (though peradventure very seldom) upon doing something, out of which the desired effect followeth; as it can not choose but fall out now and then, although chance only do govern their actions: and when their action proveth successful, it leaveth such an impression in the memory, that whensoever the like occasion occurreth, that animal will follow the same method; for the same specieses do come together from the memory into the fantasy. But the many attempts that miscarry, and the ineffectual motions which straits do cast beasts upon, are never observed, nor are there any stories recorded of them: no more then in the temple of Neptune, were kept upon the registres, the relations of those unfortunate wretches, who making vows unto that god in their distress, were nevertheless drowned.  
Thus peradventure, when the fox seeth his labour in chaceing the hens, to be to no purpose; and that by his pursuit of them, he driveth them further out of his reach; he layeth himself down to rest, with a watchful eye, and perceiving those silly animals to grow bolder and bolder, by their not seeing him stir, he continueth his lying still, until some one of them cometh within his reach, and then on a sudden, he springeth up and catcheth her: or peradventure some poultry might have strayed within his reach whiles he was asleep, and have then wakened him with some noise they made; and so he happen to seize upon one of them, without either design or pains taking before hand: by such degrees he might chance to catch one the first time: and they being settled in his memory, together with the effect; it happened that an other time when hunger pressed him, and sent up to his brain like spirits unto those which ascended thither whiles he lay watching the hens; these spirits brought the other from his memory into his fantasy (in such sort as we have showed in the last Chapter) and so drove him to the same course, until by frequent repetitions, it became ordinary and familiar with him: and then they that look only upon the performance of the artifice, are apt to infer discourse and a design of reason, out of the orderly conduct of it.  
But how can we conceive the fox hath judgement to know when the hen is come within his leap, and accordingly offereth not art her till then; unless we resort to some other principle, than what is yet declared? The answer unto this objection I think will not be hard to find; for if the motion, which the presence of the object maketh in the hart, be proportioned out by nature (as there is no doubt but it is) it will not be so great and powerful, as to make the fox leap at it, until it be arrived so near him, that by his nimbleness he can reach it; and so without any aim, further than by the mere flux of his passion conveniently raised, he doth the feat: but if his passion be too violent, it maketh him miss his aim; as we may frequently observe both in men and beasts: and particularly, when fear presseth either of them to leapeover a ditch, which being too broad, he lighteth in the midst of it.  
The same watchfulness and desire to have the poulen, that sit upon a tree out of his reach, maketh him fix his eyes upon them, when they are at rooste: and at length, either the brightness and sparkling of them, dazzleth the birds, and maketh them come down to them, (as flies do in the night about the flame of a candle; or as fishes do to a light in a boats head;) or else they are afraid; and their fear increasing, their spirits return to the hart, which thereby is oppressed, and their outward parts are bereaved of strength and motion; from whence it followeth necessarily, that their footing looseth their hold fast, and they tumble down half dead with fear; which happeneth also frequently to cats, when they look wistly upon little birds that sit quietly. Or peradventure, their fear maketh them giddy; as when some man looking down a precipice from a dangerous standing, he falleth by the turning of his brain, though nothing be behind him to thrust him forward. Or it may be, some steam cometh from the fox, which draweth such creatures to him; as it is reported that a great and very poisonous toad will do a weasel, who will run about the toad a great while, and still make his circle lesser and lesser, till at length he perisheth in the centre, where his foe sitteth still, and draweth him to him: which he doth in such sort, as animated Mercury will draw leaf gold duly prepared, or as the loadstone attracteth iron: and yet it is apparent, the weasel cometh not with his good will; but that there are some powerful chains, steaming from the body of the toad, which pluck him thither against his liking; for by his motions and running, he will express the greatest fear that can be.  
The method which foxes do practise, 
5 From whence proceedeth the fox's invention to rid himself of fleas.  to rid themselves of their fleas (if it be true) is obvious enough for them to fall upon; for in summer, their fleas together with their thick furred coat, can not choose but cause an exceeding great itching and heat in their bodies; which will readily invite them to go into the water to cool themselves; as the merchants at the Isles of Zante and of Cephalonia told me (when I was there) it was the custom of our English dogs (who were habituated unto a colder clime) to run into the sea in the heat of summer, and lie there most part of the day, with only their noses out of the water, that they might draw breath, and would sleep there with their heads laid upon some stone, which raised them up, whiles their bodies were covered with the sea: and those dogs which did not thus, would in one summer usually be killed with heat and fleas.  
Now when the fox feeleth the ease that the coolness of the water affordeth that part of him which sitteth in it, he goeth further and further; yet would not put himself to swim, which is a labour, and would heat him, and therefore he avoideth it; so that whiles he thus cooleth himself in some shady place (for it is natural unto him, in such an occasion, to resort unto the cool shade, rather than to lie in the sun) and in such there being for the most part some boughs hanging over the water, it happeneth naturally enough, that he taketh some of the lowest in his mouth, to support him, and save him the labour of swimming, whiles he lieth at his ease, soaking and cooling himself in the river. By which means it cometh to pass, that the fleas finding no part of him free from water, do creep up to the bough to rescue themselves from drowning: and so, when he is cooled enough, he goeth away and leaveth them there. In all which finding a benefit and satisfaction, whensoever the like occasion bringeth those specieses, from his memory into his fantasy, he betaketh himself to the same course, and therein finding his remedy, at length it groweth familiar to him.  
In the like manner, Thales his mule, that was heavily loaden with salt, happening to stumble, and to fall in a river she was going over, the salt melted by the water soaking into the sacks, and so she was eased of her burden; which success made her, whensoever she came to a river, and was troubled with her loading, she would lie down in the water; and could not be reclaimed from it, till they charged sacks of wool upon her back, which growing heavier by their imbibing of water, weaned her from her former crafty habit. By which it is apparent, that it was memory and not judgement, which made her for a while behave herself so subtly.  

6 An explication of two other inventions of foxes.  For the foxes driving the badget from his earth, you will not think it needful to allow him a forecast and design in pissing in it: but as it is natural for him, to rest in a place that he meeteth with fit for that purpose; so is it for him to piss in it, if the list take him whiles he is there; which in all likelihood it will, if he stay any time there, and give a relaxation to all his parts by sleep.  
And when he pisseth in his tail, and shaketh it in the dog's ey●s, it is evident that fear, not craft causeth this effect; for it availeth him 〈◊〉, and therefore is not likely to proceed from judgement. And of the other, it is a natural effect in all beasts (when it is violent) to contract their tails between their legs, and to make their urine come from them, (by compressing the spirits in their hart, which should support their outward parts, and strengthen their splincter muscle) which their being snapped at and seiled upon by the dogs, shaketh from their bushy tails (fit to retain it) and then lighting in the dog's eyes, the acrimony of it hurteth them, and maketh them shut their lids.  
The story (if it be true) of the fox, that to save himself from the dogs that he heard following him in full cry, did hang by his teeth among dead vermin in a warren, is a very strange one I confess: but it is conceivable, how fear and weariness might cause him to seek a shelter to hide himself: and in so plain a tract of ground as warrens use to be in, without any bush or hill to have recourse unto for relief, there appearing nothing but a gallows hanged full of vermin; his fantasy might be moved (he being able to run no further) to thrust himself among those dead bodies, that he saw rested quietly: and having no way to mingle himself with them, but hanging by his teeth; he might continue in that posture, till the dogs not suspecting him in the air, might run under him, and overshoot the scent: which whiles they cast about to recover, by running to beat the next wood or shelter in view (as is there custom in losses of their chase; unto which they are brought by their masters hunting them in that method at the first) the wily animal stealeth an other way, and recovereth himself.  

7 Concerning Mountagues argument to prove that dogs make syllogisms.  This overrunning of the sent by dogs in the earnestness of their chase, putteth me in mind of Montague's argument, out of which he will infer, that dogs use discourse, and do make syllogisms in their hunting: for (saith he) when they have followed their chase down a lane, that a length divideth itself into three others; they will carefully smell at the first and at the second, and not finding that it hath gone in either of those, they boldly run upon the third, without ever laying their noses to the ground▪ as being assured by their discourse and reason, that since it went not in the two first, and there being but one remaining, it must of necessity have gone there.  
But this needeth no other cause, then that their eagerness of hunting having made them overshoot the scent, (which for a while remaineth in their noses, after they are parted from the object that caused it) they cast back again (as they accustomed to be made to do in like occasions by the hunters that train them up) and with their noses they try the ground all the way they go; till coming near where the chase went indeed, the scent striketh their noses (that by this time are grown empty of it) before they come at the place: and then they run amain in pursuit of it, with their heads held up, (which is their convenientest posture for running) and all the way, the scent filleth them at that distance without their needing to smell upon the earth, to fetch it from thence.  
That fox which used to cast himself by the advantage of a bough into his den, 
8 A declaration how some tricks are performed by foxes, which seem to argue discourse.  was so closely pursued by the dogs the first time he ventured upon this feat, that he had not time to go into his earth (his ordinary retreat, when he is near it) by the easy and accessible way; but on the one side, to get thither being strong in his fantasy, and on the other side, the precipice which he had often seen, coming likewise thither from his memory; these two concurring could not choose but make him go warily thither: and in so dangerous a leap, it is natural for him, to help himself by any thing in the way that can advantage him: which happening to be by catching in his mouth a bough that hung over his den, (the only sudden means he hath to take hold of any thing) and from thence taking as it were a new rise for a second leap, he findeth himself in security: whiles the dogs unacquainted with the place, run violently on, as in the rest of their chase: and so are upon the brim of the precipice, before they perceive it; and than it is too late for them to stop their course; and consequently, they break their necks. Which mischief to them the fox needeth not have in his design, and accordingly tolle them that way; but chance begetting this deliurance of him at the first, when he was so hard pressed, his memory teacheth him to follow the same course, whensoever the like occasion occurreth.  
But how many foxes do there perish in attempts, which if they had succeeded, would have been accounted by slight judgers, to be notable subtleties; but miscarrying are esteemed tumultuary motions without design, caused by that animals fantasy and spirits, wh●n he is in extremity? I remember how upon a time, when I was hunting one, he being hard set, and but little before the dogs and the hunters, caught in his mouth the bough of a crooked ashetree he run up a pretty way; which being in a hedge, h● thereby hung down a long the side of the hedge, and when we struck him over the ribs with our poles, he would not quit his hold, (so strongly the fear of the dogs wrought in his fantasy) till greater blows knocked him on the head. Which showeth evidently that this action, was the effect of chance pressing his fantasy to do something; and not any reason or discourse providing for his safety: as we have already said upon occasion of the others hanging among the dead vermin in the warren.  
Those in Thracia, that will not go over a frozen river, when the ice is too thin to bear them, are by their memory, not by their judgement taught to retire; for at other times they have been wetted, when they have hard the noise of the stream running under the ice: or the very running of the water, calleth the specieses of swimming out from their memory, along with it into their fantasy (neither of which is pleasant to them in the winter) and so disliking the noise for the other effects sake, that used to accompany it, they avoid that which begetteth it, and so retire from the river. And the reason of their listening to the noise, proceedeth from the spirits, that their passion upon apprehension of a danger presseth into the nerves of their senses, as well as into the other nerves of their brain; which accordingly maketh them so vigilant, and attentive then to outward objects and motions.  

9 Of the jaccatrays invention in calling beasts to himself.  That the jaccatray or Hyaena, when he is hungry, should have his fantasy call out from his memory, the images of those beasts, which use to serve him in that occasion, is the ordinary course of nature: and that together with those images, there should likewise come along the actions and sounds which used to accompany them, and are lodged together with them in the memory, is also natural; then, as little strange it is, that by his own voice he should imitate those sounds, which at that time do so powerfully possess his imagination: and having a great docility in those organs which form the voice, like a parrot he representeth them so lively, that the deceived beasts flock to him, and so are caught by him: which at the first happeneth by chance, but afterwards by memory, and groweth familiar to him.  

10 Of the jaccalls' design in serving the lion.  Nor can we imagine, that the jaccall hath a design of serving the lion; but his nature being (like a dog) to bark when he feeleth the sent hot (which he pursueth for his own sake) the lion that dwelleth in the same woods with him, meeteth with the noise, and followeth it; and peradventure would kill the jaccal himself, as well as what he hunteth, if he could overtake him: but he being too nimble for the lion, keepeth out of his reach; till having wearied the beast he chaseth, the lion that followeth by the cry, cometh in when he is at abby, and soon teareth in pieces what the other had not strength enough so suddenly to master, and feedeth himself upon the quarry till he be full. All this while the jaccall dareth not come near the lion, but standeth at a distance with fear waiting till he have done, and then after he is gone away, he taketh his turn to feed upon what his surly master hath left.  

11 Of several inventions of fishes.  The like reasons it is probable we might find out among those fishes that serve one an other, if we had the conveniency of observing particularly how they behave themselves; as when the Whale hath service from his little guide (if the report be true; which is a necessary circumstance to be inserted in every such tale) and others of the like strain.  
The suttlety of the Torpedo (who hideth himself in the mud to benumb fishes, that may afterwards serve him to feed upon) will not require to have its origine from reason, and be done by design; when you shall consider it is natural for such cold creatures to emmudde themselves: and then the fishes that swim within the reach of his benumbing faculty, will be stayed and frozen there: which because they see him not, they apprehend not, till it be too late for them to avoid it: and then, when the Torpedo cometh out, he feedeth upon what he findeth lying ready in his way.  
And in like manner, the scuttle fish, when he is in straits of being taken by the fisherman, casteth out a blackness that is within him, and so making the water become like ink, he oftentimes escapeth their hands in the darkened Element: which ariseth from no discourse of his, but fear maketh him void this liquor that is in him (as it made the fox void his urine) and in consequence thereunto, the effect followeth.  
Lastly, 
12 A discovery of divers things done by hares, which seem to argue discourse.  when hares do use those means we have mentioned to confound the sent, and to save themselves from the dogs that hunt them, we may observe, that they take therein the readiest ways, and the most obvious unto sense, to avoid the evil they fly from. For what can be more direct to that effect, then to hide themselves in hedge bottoms, or in woods? Or to swim over a river, when that is the most immediate way to run from the dogs? And when they are in a plain, where there is no other shelter but flocks of sheep or herds of dear, what can be more natural, then for them to hide themselves among them, and run a long with them, till the cry of the approaching hounds fright them away, whiles those tamer beasts abide it nearer?  
Their doublings backward and forward, may proceed from their fear, that diverteth them still from the way they are in at present, till the dogs coming near, do put the hare out of those waverings, and do make her run strait away: for they never double but when they are a great way before the dogs, and do not hear them. Or else it may be, that not hearing or seeing the dogs, their fear may be almost passed; and then the agitation which their spirits are in, gowerneth the motions of their body, and will not let them rest until they be more appeased, (as you see weary people, that at their first ceasing from running, can not sit still: the like of which happeneth also frequently in the motions of joy or of anger) and so it maketh them walk backwards and forward, in a pace proportionate to the agitation of the spirits within: and sometimes those moved spirits do make them bound and leap too and fro (like the loaf with quicksilver, we have heretofore spoken of) as they issue from the hart by pulses and strokes; which happeneth when they begin to settle towards rest. Or else peradventure their form is so framed, that if they should get into it otherwise then by a jump, they would disorder some part of it, and so be unfenced and acold, or otherwise at unease during their repose: and therefore their iumping too and fro, before they leap plump in, is to take their aim; not much unlike to dogs, turning about several times before they lie down: for harefinders (who use to watch them) say they will do thus, though they be not pursued. And thus these actions which are imputed to craft, thereby to confound the dogs, or to wisdom, to walk themselves until they be grown into a fitting temper to sit still; may all of them be reduced to those material and corporeal causes, which make them do their other ordinary motions, wherein we find no difficulty.  

13 Of a fox reported to have weighed a goose, before he would venture with it over a river; and of fabulous stories in common.  If that of the foxes weighing his goose, before he would venture to carry it over the river, were plainly true as it is set down; I avow I should be hard set to find the principles from whence that discretion in him proceeded: but I conceive this tale may be paired with that, which telleth us of an other fox who having his prey taken from him by an eagle, brought the next day a new prize into the same place, having first rolled it in the fire, so that some burning coals stuck upon it; which the eagle coming again and snatching from him, carried to her nest, which was thereby set on fire; and the young ones falling down, became the fox's share, instead of what their dam had robbed him of. Such stories so quaintly contrived, are fitter for a moral then for a natural Philosopher: Aesop may entertain himself and his disciples with them; whiles all the reflection I shall make upon them, is, that when I hear any such finely ordered tales, I can not doubt but they are well amended in the relation, by those that tell them: it being the inclination and custom of most men, (partly through a desire of having strange things come from them; and partly out of a care that what they say may appear like truth, and so be the easilier believed) to add circumstances beyond the truth of the matter: which increasing at every new man's relation of the same accident (for this humour reigneth very generally) at the length, so handsome, and yet so strange a tale is composed, that the first author or teller of it, wondereth at it as well as others, and can not discern that his story begot this latter.  
Therefore, when one of these fine tales is proposed to speculate upon, and that I have no light to guide me in determining what part of them to allow, and what to reject; I think it better to expect an authentic record of it, then be too hasty at guesses: leaving such as pretend ability in reading of riddles, to descant of the ways how such actions may be effected: but for others, that have a semblance of truth, or do happen ordinarily, be they at the first sighed never so like the operations of reason, I doubt not but that the causes of them, may be reduced to the principles we have already established; and the ways of performing them, may be pitched upon by such discourses about them, as we have made about those examples we have above produced. Especially if the actions themselves, were observed by one that could judge of them, and were reported with a desire of expressing the truth nakedly as in itself it lieth; for divers times it happeneth, that men saying nothing but truth, do express it in such a manner, and with such terms, that the ignorant hearer conceiveth the thing quite an other way, than indeed it is, merely for the too emphatical expression: especially if the relatour himself misseth in conceiving the true causes of what he reporteth, and so expresseth it proportionable to those which he apprehendeth.  
To conclude then this first branch, we see how the doubting, the resolving, the aiming the inventing, and the like, which we experience in beasts, may by the vestigies we have traced out, be followed unto their root, as far as the division of rarity and density; without needing to repair unto any higher principle, saving the wisdom of the orderer and Architect of nature, in so admirably disposing and mingling these material, gross, and lifeless bodies, that strange effects and incomprehensible unto them, who will not look into their several joints, may follow out of them, for the good of the creature in whose behalf they are so ordered.  
But before we go to the next point, 
14 Of the several cry and tones of beasts: with a refutation of those authors who maintain them to have complete languages.  we can not forbear mentioning their vanity as well as ignorance, who to purchase the estimation of deeper knowers of nature, would have it believed, that beasts have complete languages as men have to discourse with one an other in; which they vaunted they had the intelligence of. It is true, that in us speaking or talking is an operation of reason, not because it is in reason; but because it is the work of reason, by an other instrument; and is no where to be found without reason: which those irrational Philosophers, that pretended to understand the language of beasts, allowed them, as well as the ability of talking to one an other: but it was because they had more pride than knowledge. Of which rank one of the chief was Apollonius, surnamed from Thyana; for if he had known how to look into the nature of beasts, he would have perceived the reason of the divers voices which the same beast in divers occasions formeth.  
This is evident, that an animals lungs and chest, lying so near as they do unto his hart; and all voice being made by the breathes coming out of his mouth, and through his windpipe; it must necessarily follow, that by the divers ordering of these instruments, his voice will become divers; and these instruments will be diversely ordered in him, according to the divers motions of his hart: that is, by divers passions in him (for so we may observe in ourselves, that our breath is much changed by our being in passion;) and consequently, as a beast is agitated by various passions, he must needs utter variety of voices; which can not choose, but make divers impressions in other beasts, that have commerce with him; whether they be of the same kind as he is, or of a different: and so we see, that if a dog setteth upon a hogg, the bitten hog's cry maketh an impression in the other hogs, to come to their fellow's rescue, and in other dogs to run after the crying hogg: in like manner anger in a dog maketh snarling or barking, pain, whining; desire, an other kind of barking; and his joy of seeing a person that the useth to receive good by, will break out in an other kind of whining. So in a hen, her divers passions work divers kinds of clocking; as when she seeth a kite, she hath one voice; when she meeteth with meat, an other; when she desireth to gather her chickens under her wings, a third: and so, upon divers occasions, a divers sound; according to the divers ordering of her vocal instruments, by the passion which presseth her hart. So that who would look curiously into the motions of the dispositions of a beasts vocal instruments, and into the motions of the spirits about his hart (which motion we have showed is passion) would be able to give account, why every voice of that beast was such a one, and what motion about the hart it were that caused it.  
And as much may be observed in men, who in pains and griefs, and other passions, do use to break out into those voices, which we call interjections, and which signifieth nothing in the understanding of them that form them, but to the hearer are signs of the passion from whence they proceed: which if a man do heedfully mark in himself, he will perceive, that they nothing else, but the sudden eruptions of a great deal of breath together, caused by some compression made within him, by the pain he is in. Which is the reason that the striving against groan in certain occasions, doth sick persons much harm; for it disordereth the natural motions of some principal parts within him, that are already too much agitated; and the countermotion by which they are checked, putteth them further into a more violent agitation. In the observation of these natural eruptions of men's breath, caused by Passion, our fore fathers of old were so industrious, as to transfer the imitation of nature in this particular into Music, so that their kinds of music, were distinguished according to the division of men's passions; and by similitude would raise them in the hearers.  
Out of this discourse also reason may be given, why birds are more musical than other creatures, to wit, because they are of a hotter complexion; and therefore, to their bigness, do require more breath and air to cool them; and consequently do make more noise, and more variety of it. Likewise, among beasts, dogs are the most vocal of any that converse with us; who by their ready anger appear to be the hottest. Among men, those that are merry, or soon become heated with a little wine, are given to talking and singing: and so are children, and women likewise; not so much through abundance of heat, as because their heat doth easily vent.  
And thus it is evident, that there is no true language among beasts: their voices not being tokens of divers things or conceptions, but merely the effects of divers breathe, caused by divers passions. Wherefore, since both breathing and passion, are easily reduced to the common principles of rarity and density; we need not trouble ourselves any further, to seek into the origine of this vocal faculty of beasts.   

THE SEVEN AND THERTIETH CHAPTER. Of the docility of some irrational animals; and of certain continuate actions of a long tract of time so orderly performed by them, that they seem to argue knowledge in them.  
AS for docility, 
1 How hawks and other creatures are taught to do what they are browght up to.  (which is our second head) Apes and Elephants are most famed. Though peradventure, the cunning and obedience of our hawks and dogs, is no whitt inferior to what is reported of them; and would be as much admired, were it not so common. I have by sundry persons who have seen him, been told of a baboon, that would play certain lessons upon a guitarre. The indian histories make mention of Apes, that will go to the tavern and fetch wine for their Masters; as Lipsius his dog would bring his Master as much meat from the market, as he carried money to his butcher to pay for. Of Elephants likewise, strange things are told: but because we can not easily judge how to understand reports, whereof we have not seen the experience; not how far to believe them, ● intent not to insist upon the examining of them; for by looking into the nature and art of our hounds that follow a suit of blood, or that draw dry foot; and of our hawks, especially of the decoy ducks and Cormorants; a scantling may be given at all the rest. And although these things told at random, may justly seem very admirable to any man the first time he heareth of them, yet to him that vnderstandeth how they are taught, there is no one passage but will appear plain enough.  
The first degree is to tame the hawk by watching her from sleep, and to acquaint her with the man, by continually carrying her upon his fist, and using her to take her meat quietly, as she sitteth upon his hand. Then he maketh her hop a little way to it in a pair of crane's; and after a while, kill a seeled pigeon; from which he taketh her when she is grown steady in her lesson so far, and feedeth her up with other meat: and thus in time he bringeth her to fly at what he will have her, and to be content with a small reward, leaving her quarry to her Master; so that a spectator, who understandeth not the mystery, nor ever saw hawking before, may well admire to see a bird so dutifully and exactly obey a man's command: and may conceive she hath a reasonable soul, whereby to understand him, and discourse of the means to bring his purpose to effect. Whereas indeed all this is no more, then to make her do for you and when you please, the same which she doth by nature to feed herself.  
The cunning of dogs is begotten in the same way. Coyduckes are beaten and whipped to what they are taught, like setting dogs▪ Cormorantes have their throats tied, that they may not swallow the fish they catch, but be constrained to bring it to the man that employeth them; so that looking along step by step, you shall meet with nothing but what is plain, and easy to be taught, and to be performed by sense and memory; without needing to attribute any discourse or reasoning unto beasts.  
Apes are likewise taught as dogs may be, to carry things to a certain house; where receiving what is given them, they return home with it: and you may be confident, this serviceableness of the Ape, grew out of his being carried first to the tavern by the maid or boy, who there gave him somewhat that pleased him; and then being made to carry the pot along by the boy; and afterwards being made to carry money in one hand, and the pot in an other; whereof some drawer discharged him of the one, and filled the other, and withal gave him a reward▪ which also was repeated to him at his return home with his full pot: till at the last, when he was sufficiently used to this exercise, he would of himself go strait thither, as soon as he was harnessed in such sort as he used to be for this service. Which appeareth to be assuefaction and custom, not judgement, by his receiving indifferently whatsoever is put into his pot.  
And by the tale of Lipsius his dog; from whom other less dogs, snatching as he trotted along, part of what hung out of his basket (which he carried in his mouth) he set it down to weary one of them; whiles in the mean time, the others fed at liberty and at ease upon the meat that lay there unguarded; till he coming back to it, drove them away, and himself made an end of eating it up. Whereby we may conceive, that the species of carrying his basket to his Master (which custom had settled in his memory) was disordered, and thrust out of his fantasy, by a stronger of fight for his meat with the other curs: after which it followed naturally in his fantasy, to eat what he had fought for. And that sending then spirits into his nerves, agreeable to the nature of it, and governing the parts depending of the brain, a motion and action ensued, which was suitable to the object in the fantasy; and this could be none other, but of eating what the fantasy found conformable unto its nature.  

2 Of the Baboon that played on a guitarre.  The baboon we have mentioned, might be taught some lessons made on purpose with very few stops, and upon an instrument whereon all the strings may be strucken with one blow, and but one fret to be used at a time, and that fret to be stopped with one finger: of which, much labour and time might beget a habit in him: and then, imitation of the sound, might make him play in due measure. And if we will mark it in ourselves, we shall see, that although in the first learning of a lesson upon the lute, we employ our reason and discourse about it; yet when we have it very perfect, our fingers (guided by a slight fantasy) do fall by custom, without any reflection at all, to play it as well as if we thought never so carefully vpon it. And there is no comparison, between the difficulty of a guitarre and of a lute.  
I have been told, that at the Duke of Florence his marriage, there was a dance of horses, in which they kept exact time of music. The means used for bringing them to it, is said to have been, by tying and hampering their legs in such a sort, that they could lift them up but in a determinate way: and then setting them upon a pavement, that was heated underneath so hit, as they could not endure to stand still, whiles such musical airs were played to them, as fitted their motions. All which being often repeated, the horses took a habit, that in hearing those airs, they would lift up their legs in that fashion; and so danced to the tune they had been taught.  
Of the Elephants, 
3 Of the teaching of Elephants and other beasts to do divers tricks.  it is said that they may be taught to write; and that purely upon words and commanding them, they will do what they are bidden; and that they are able to keep account, and will leave working at a precise number of revolutions of the same action, which measureth out their task unto them. All which (as I said before) if it were plainly and literally true, would require very great consideration: but because the teachers of beasts, have certain secrets in their art, which standers by do not reach unto; we are not able (upon such scanty relations as we have of them) to make sufficient judgement how such things are done; unless we had the managing of those creatures, whereby to try them in several occasions, and to observe what cause produceth every operation they do; and by what steps they attain unto their instructions and serviceableness.  
It is true, the uncontrolled reports of them, oblige us to believe some extraordinary matter of their docility, and of strange things done by them: but withal, the example of other taught beasts among us, and of the strange judgements that are made of them by persons, who do not penetrate into their causes, may instruct us how easy it is to mistake the matter; and assure us, that the relations which are made us, do not always punctually agree with the truth of what passed. He that should tell an Indian, what feats Banks his horse would do; how he would restore a glove to the due owner, after his master had whispered that man's name in his ear; how he would tell the just number of pence in any piece of silver coin barely showed him by his master; and even obey presently his command, in discharging himself of his excrements whensoever he bade him (So great a power art may have over nature:) would make him I believe, admire more at this learned beast, than we do at their docile Elephants, upon the relations we have of them. Whereas every one of us knoweth, by what means his painful tutor brought him to do all his tricks: and they are no whit more extraordinary, than a f●wkeners manning of a hawk, and training her to kill partridges, and to fly at the retrieve: but do all of them (both these, and all other juggling artificies of beasts) depend upon the same, or like principles; and are known to be but directions of nature, ordered by one that composeth and leveleth her operations to an end further off (in those actions) than she of herself would aim at. The particulars of which, we need not trouble ourselves to meddle with.  

4 Of the Orderly train of actions performed by beasts in breeding their young ones.  But it is time that we come to the third sort of actions performed by beasts, which we promised to discourse of. These seem to be more admirable, than any we have yet touched: and are chiefly concerning the breeding of their young ones. Above all others, the orderly course of birds in this affair, is most remarkable. After they have coupled they make their nest, they line it with moss, straw, and feathers; they lay their eggs, they set upon them, they hatch them, they feed their young ones, and they teach them to fly: all which they do with so continuate and regular a method, as no man can direct or imagine a better.  
But as for the regularity, orderliness, and continuance of these actions, the matter is easy enough to be conceived: for seeing that the operation of the male, maketh a change in the female; and that this change beginning from the very first, groweth by time into divers proportions; it is no wonder that it breedeth divers dispositions in the female, which cause her to do different actions, correspondent to those divers dispositions. Now, those actions must of necessity be constant and orderly, because the causes whence they proceed, are such.  
But to determine in particular, how it cometh to pass, that every change in the female, disposeth her to such and such actions, there is the difficulty; and it is no small one: as well, for that there are no careful and due observations, made of the effects and circumstances, which should guide us to judge of their causes; as because these actions, are the most refined ones of sensitive creatures; and do flow from the top and perfection of their nature; and are the last strain of their utmost vigour, unto which all others are subordinate. As in our enquiry into the motions and operations of the bodies of a lower orb than these, we met with some (namely the loadstone, and such like) of which it is very hard to give an exact and plain account; the Author of them reserving something from our clear and distinct knowledge; and suffering us to look upon it but through a mist: in like manner we can not but expect, that in the depth of this other perfecter nature, there must be somewhat whereof we can have but a glimmering and imperfect notion. But as in the other, it served our turn to trace out a way, how those operations might be effected by bodies, and by local motion (though peradventure, we did not in every circumstance hit exactly upon the right) thereby to defend ourselves from admitting those chymericall qualities, which we had already condemned, upon all other occasions.  
So I conceive, it will be sufficient for us in this, to show how these actions may be done by the senses, and by the motion of corporeal spirits, and by material impressions upon them; without being constrained to resort unto an immaterial principle, which must furnish birds with reason and discourse: in which, it is not necessary for my purpose, to determine precisely every step, by which these actions are performed, and to settle the rigorous of them: but leaving that unto those, who shall take pains to deliver the history of their nature, I will content myself with the possibility and probability of my conjectures. The first of which qualities, I am obliged to make plain, but the later concerneth this treatise no more, than it would do a man to inquire anxiously into the particulars of what it is that a beast is doing, whiles looking upon it, at a great distance, he perceiveth plainly that it moveth it self: and his arrant is, but to be assured whether it be alive or dead: which the moving of itself in common, doth sufficiently demonstrate, without descending into a particular search, of what his motions are.  
But let us come to the matter: first I conceive no man will make any difficulty in allowing, that it is the temper of the blood and spirits in birds (brought thereunto by the quality of their food, and by the season of the year) which maketh them accouple with one an other; and not any aim or desire of having young ones, that occasioneth, this action in them. Then it followeth that the hens eggs will increase in her belly; and when they grow big, they can not choose but be troublesome unto her; and therefore, must of necessity breed in her an inclination to rest in some soft place, and to be rid of them. And as we see a dog or a cat pressed by nature, searcheth about to find a convenient place to disburden themselves in, not only of their young ones, but even of their excrements; so do birds, whose eggs within them, making them heavy and unfit to fly, they begin to sit much, and are pleased in a soft and warm place: and thereupon, they are delighted with straws and moss, and other gentle substances; and so carry them to their sitting place: which that they do not by design, is evident by the manner of it; for when they have met with a straw or other fit material, they fly not with it directly to their nest, but first to a bough of some tree, or to the top of a house; and there they hop and dance a while with it in their beaks; and from thence skip to an other place, where they entertain themselves in like manner: and at the last, they get to their nest: where if the straws should lie confusedly, their ends would prick and hurt them: and therefore they turn and alter their positions till they lie smooth: which we that look upon the effect, and compare them with our performing of like actions (if we had occasion) may call a judicious ordering of them, whereas in them, it is nothing but removing such things as press upon their sense, until they cause them no more pain or unquietness.  
Their plastering of their nests, may be attributed to the great heat reigning in them at that time; which maketh them still be dabbling in moist clay, and in water, and in gravel, (without which, all birds will soon grow sick, blind, and at length die (which for the coolness of it, they bring home to their nests in their beaks and upon their feet; and when it groweth dry, and consequently troublesome to them, they wipe it off, and rub their dirty parts upon the place where they use to sit; and then fly for more refresh themselves withal.  
Out of all which actions (set on foot by the wise orderer of nature, to compass a remote end, quite different from the immediate end that every one of them is done for) there resulteth a fit and convenient place for these little builders (that know not whey they do, whiles they build themselves house's) to lie in, and to lay their eggs in. Which the next year, when the like occasion occurreth, they build again; peradventure then, as much through memory of the former, as upon their temper and other circumstances, moving their fantasy in such sort as we have set down.  
In like manner, that whiles the Halcyon layeth and hatcheth her eggs, the sea is calm, needeth no more be attributed to the wisdom and providence of that bird, in choosing a fit season, then to any good nature or discourse in that rolling and merciless Element; as though it had a pious care of preserving the eggs committed to his trust: no such supplements are requisite to be added unto the distributions of nature, who hath set material causes on foot, to produce a coniuncture of both those effects at the same period of time, for the propagation of this animals species.  
In fine, both the time and the place of the Halcyons breeding, and the manner, and order, and season of all birds making their nests, proceedeth from secret motions, which do require great observing and attention to understand them; and do serve for directions unto every bird, according to her kind, to make her nest fittest for her use. Which secret motions, we can not doubt but are material ones, and do arise out of the constitution and temper of their bodies and spirits; which in like circumstances are alike in them all: for all the birds of one kind, do make their nests exactly alike; which they would not do, if this work proceeded from reason in them, and were governed by their own election and design: as we see it happen among men upon all occasions, either of building houses, or of making clothes, or of what action soever is guided by their reason governing their fantasy; in all which we see so great variety and inconstancy.  
And therefore this in variability in the bird's operations, must proceed from a higher intellect, that hath determinately and precisely ordered a complexe or assembly of sundry causes, to meet infaillibly and by necessity, for the production of an effect that he hath designed: and so, the birds are but material instruments to perform without their knowledge or reflection, a superior reasons counsels: even as in a clock, that is composed of several pieces and wheels, all the parts of it, do conspire to give notice of the several effluxes and periodes of time, which the maker hath ordered it for.  
And although this be a work of reason and discourse in him, that d●d set it together; yet the instrumental performance of it, dependeth merely of local motion, and of the revolutions of bodies, so orderly proportioned to one an other, that their effects can not fail when once the engine is wound up: in like manner then, the bird is the engine of the Artificer, infinitely more perfect, and knowing, and dexterous than a poor clockemaker; and the plummets which do make it go, are the row and order of causes chained together, which by the design of the supreme workman, do bring to pass such effects, as we see in the building of their nests, and in doing such other actions, as may be compared to the strickings of the clock, and the ringing of the alarm at due times.  
And as that king of China, upon his first seeing a watch, thought it a living a judicious creature, because it moved so regularly of itself; and believed it to be dead, when it was run out; till the opening of it and the winding it up, discovered unto him the artifice of it: so any man may be excused, that looking upon these strange actions, and this admirable oeconomy of some living creatures, should believe them endued with reason, until he have well reflected upon every particular circumstance of their nature and operations: for than he will discern how these are but material instruments of a rational Agent working by them; from whose orderly prescriptions, they have not power to swerve in the least circumstance that is. Every one of which considered singly by itself, hath a face of no more difficulty, then that (for example) an ingenier should so order his matters, that a mine should be ready to play exactly at such an hour, by leaving such a proportion of kindled match hanging out of one of the barrels of powder, whiles in the mean time, he either sleepeth, or attendeth to something else.  
And when you have once gained thus much of yourself, to gr●ee unto an orderly course and generation of any single effect, by the power of a material cause working it; raise but your discourse a strain higher, and look with reverence and duty upon the immensity of that provident Architect, out of whose hands these masterpieces issue, and unto whom it is as easy to make a chain of causes of a thousand or of a million of links, as to make one link alone: and then you will no longer stick at allowing the whole oeconomy of those actions, to be nothing else, but a production of material effects, by a due ranging and ordering of material causes.  
But let us return to our theme: as we see that milk coming into the breasts of livebearing female creatures, when th●y grow weary big, heateth and maketh them seek the mouths of their young ones, to disburden and cool them: so the carriage and bigness of the eggs, heateth exceedingly the breasts and bodies of the birds; and this causeth them to be still rubbing of their breasts, against the sides of their nests (where unto their unwieldinesse then, confineth them very much) and with their beaks to be still picking their feathers; which being then apt to fall off and me we (as we see the hair of women with child, is apt to shed) it happeneth that by than they are ready to lay their eggs, they have a soft bed of their own feathers, made in their nests, over their courser mattrasse of straws they first brought thither: and then, the eggs powerful attracting of the annoying heat from the hens breast (whose imbibing of the warmeth, and stonelike shell, can not choose but cool her much inviteth her to sit constantly upon them, until sitting hatcheth them; and it is euident, that this sitting must proceed from their temper at that time, or from some other immediate cause, which worketh that effect; and not from a judgement that doth it for a remote end: for housewives tell us, that at such a season, their hens will be sitting in every convenient place they come unto, as though they had eggs to hatch, when never a one is under them: so as it seemeth that at such time, there is some inconvenience in their bodies, which by sitting is eased.  
When the chickens are hatched, what wonder is it, if the little crying of tender creatures, of a like nature and language with their dams, do move those affections or passions in her bosom, which causeth her to feed them, and to defend, and breed them, till they be able to shift for themselves? For all this there needeth no discourse or reason; but only the motion of the blood about the hart (which we have determined to be passion) stirred by the young ones chirpinges, in such sort, as may carry them unto those actions which by nature (the supreme intellect) are ordered for their preservation. Wherein the birds (as we have already said) are but passive instruments, and know not why they do those actions: but do them they must, whensoever such and such objects (which infaillibly wo●ke in their due times) do make such and such impressions upon their fantasies, like the alarm that necessarilly striketh, when the hand of the dial cometh to such a point; or the gunnepouder that necessarily maketh a ruin and breach in the wall, when the burning of the match reacheth to it.  
Now this love in the dam, growing by little and little wearisome and troublesome to her; and at last, fading quite away; and she not being able to supply their increased needs, which they grow every day stronger to provide for of themselves; the strait commerce beginneth to die on both sides: and by these degrees the dam leaveth her young ones, to their own conduct.  
And thus you see how this long series of actions, may have orderly causes, made and chained together, by him that knew what was fitting for the work he went about. Of which, though it is likely I have miss of the right ones (as it can not choose but happen in all disquisitions, where one is the first to break the ice, and is so slenderly informed of the particular circumstances of the matter in question, as I profess to be in this) yet I conceive this discourse doth plainly show, that he who hath done more than we are able to comprehend and understand, may have set causes sufficient for all these effects, in a better order, and in completer ranks, than those which we have here expressed: and yet in them so coursely hewed out, appeareth a possibility of having the work done by corporeal agents. Surely it were very well worth the while, for some curious and judicious person, to observe carefully and often, the several steps of nature in this progress: for I am strongly persuaded, that by such industry, we might in time arrive to very particular knowledge of the immediate and precise causes, that work all these effects. And I conceive, that such observation needeth not be very troublesome; as not requiring any great variety of creatures to institute it upon; for by ma●king carefully all that passeth among our homebred hens, I believe it were easy to guess very nearly at all the rest.   

THE EIGHT AND THERTIETH CHAPTER. Of prescience of future eventes, providencies, the knowing of things never seen b●fore; and such other actions, observed in some living creatures; which seem to be even above the reason that is in man himself.  
THe fourth and last kind of actions, 
1 why beasts are afraid of men.  which we may with astonishment observe among beasts, I conceive will avail little to infer out of them, that the creatures which do them, are endued with reason and understanding: for such they are, as if we should admit that, yet we should still be as far to seek for the causes whence they proceed. What should move a lamb to tremble at the first sight of a wolf? or a hen, at a kite never before seen? neither the grimmest mastiff, or the biggest owl, will at all affright them.  
That which in the ordinary course of nature, causeth beasts to be afraid of men, or of other beasts, is the hurt and the evil they receiuē from them: which coming into their fantasy, together with the Idea of him that did it, is also lodged together with it in the memory; from whence they come linked or glued together, whensoever the stroke of any new object calleth either of them back into the fantasy. This is confirmed by the tameness of the birds and beasts, which the first discoverers of Islands not inhabitated by men, did find in those they met withal there. Their stories tell us, that at their first arrival upon those coasts, where it seemeth men had never been, the birds would not fly away, but suffered the mariners to take them in their hands: nor the beasts, which with us are wild, would run from them: but their discourteous guests used them so hardly, as they soon changed their confidence into distrust and aversion; and by little they grew, by their commerce with men, and by receiving injuries from them, to be as wild, as any of the like kind in our parts.  
From the dams and sires, this apprehension and fear at the sight of men, so deeply rooted in them, is doubtlessly transmitted to their young ones: for it proceedeth out of the disposition of the body, and out of the passion which is immediately made in the hart; and that is as truly a material motion, as any whatsoever can be; and must have settled material instruments sitted to it, if it be constant, as well as any other natural operation whatsoever: and this passion of the hart, proceedeth again from a perpetual connexion, of the two objects in the memory: which being a perpetually constant thing, is as true a quality of that beasts brain in whom it is, as the being of a quick or dull apprehension, or the being apt to know one kind of meat from an other (which is natural to the whole species) or any other quality whatsoever, residing in that beast.  

2 How some quali●●es caused at first by chance in beasts, may pass by generation to the whole offspring.  Wherefore it is no wonder, that it passeth by generation to the offspring: which is a thing so common, even in man kind, as there can be no doubt of it: and is at the first, made by a violent cause, that greatly altereth the body: and consequently, their seed must be embued with a like disposition; and so it passeth together with the nature of the fire, or of the dam, into the brood. From hence proceedeth that children do love the same meats, and exercises, that their fathers and mothers were affected with, and fear the like harms.  
This is the reason, why a grandchild of my Lord of Dorset (whose honoured name must never be mentioned by me, without a particular respect, and humble acknowledgement of the noble and steady friendship, he hath ever been pleased to honour we with) was always extremely sick, if but the nurse did eat any capers (against which my Lords antipathy is famous) whiles she gave suck to that pretty infant. The children of great Mathematicians, who have been used to busy their fantasies continually with figures and proportions, have been oftentimes observed, to have a natural bent unto those sciences. And we may note, that even in particular gestures, and in little singularities in familiar conversation, children will oftentimes resemble their parents, as well as in the lineaments of their faces. The young ones of excellent setting dogs, will have a notable aptitude to that exercise; and may be taught with half the pains, that their sire or dam was, if they were chosen out of a race of spaniels not trained to setting. All which effects can proceed from no other cause, but (as we have touched already) that the fantasy of the parent, altereth the temper and the disposition of his body and seed, according as itself is tempered and disposed: and consequently, such a creature must be made of it, as retaineth the same qualities: in such sort as it is said that sufficient tartar put at the root of a tree will make the fruit have a winy taste.  
But nothing doth confirm this so much, as certain notable accidents, whereof though every one in particular would seem incredible, 
3 How the parent's fantasy doth oftentimes work strange effects in their issue.  yet the number of them, and the weight of the reporters, who are the witnesses can not choose but purchase a general credit to the kind of them. These accidents are, that out of some strong imagination of the parents, but especially of the mothers, in the time of conception, the children draw such main differences, as were incredible, if the testifying authority were not so great: but being true, they convince beyond all question the truth we have proposed, of the parents imagination working upon, and making an impression in the seed, whereof children or young ones of their kind are made. Some children of white parents are reported to have been black, upon occasion of a black moors picture too much in the mother's eye. Others are said to have been borne with their skins all hairy, out of the sight of St. john Baptistes' picture as he was in the desert, or of some other hairy image. An other child is f●med to have been borne deformed, in such sort as devils are painted, because the father was in a devil's habit when he got the child.  
There was a Lady a kinswoman of mine, who used much to wear black● patches upon her face (as was the fashion among young women) which I to put her from, used to tell her in jest, that the next child she should go with, whiles the solicitude and care of those patches was so strong in her fantasy, would come into the world with a great black spot in the midst of its forehead: and this apprehension was so lively in her imagination at the times she proved with child, that her daughter was borne ma●k●d just as the mother had fancied, which there are at hand witnesses enough to confirm; but none more pregnant, than the young Lady herself, upon whom the mark is yet remaining. Among other creatures, it is said that a hen hatched a chicken with a kites bill, because sh● was frighted with a kite, whiles the cock was treading her. The story of Jacob's sheep is known to all: and some do write, that the painting of beautiful coloured pigeons in a dove-house, will make the following race become like them: and in Author's store of such examples may be found.  
To give a reasonable and fully satisfying cause of this great effect, I confess is very difficult; seeing that for the most part, the parent's seed is made long time before the accouplling of the male and female: and though it were not, we should be mainly to seek for a rational ground to discourse in particular upon it. Yet not to leave our Reader without a hint which way to drive his inquisition, we will note thus much, that Aristotele and other natural Philosophers and Physicians do affirm, that in some persons the passion is so great in the time of their accouplling, that for the present it quite bereaveth them of the use of reason; and that they are for the while, in a kind of short fit of an epylepsie. By which it is manifest, that abundance of animal spirits do then part from the head, and descend into those parts which are the instruments of generation. Wherefore, if there be abundance of specieses of any one kind of object then strong in th● imagination, it must of necessity be carried down together with the spirits into the seed: and by consequence, when the seed infected with this nature, beginneth to separate and distribute itself, to the forming of the several parts of the Embryon, the spirits which do resort into the brain of the child (as to their proper Element) and from thence do finish all the outward cast of its body (in such sort as we have above described) do sometimes happen to fill certain places of the child's body, with the infection and tincture of this object; and that according to the impression with which they were in the mother's fantasy: for so we have said, that things which come together into the fantasy, do naturally stick together in the animal spirits. The hairynesse therefore, will be occasioned in those parts, where the mother fansyed it to be: the colour likewise, and such extancies or defects, as may any way proceed from such a cause, will happen to be in those parts, in which they were fansyed. And this is as far, as is fit to wade into this point, for so general a discourse as ours is; and more them was necessary for our turn: to the serving whereof, the verity of the fact only, and not the knowledge of the cause, was required: for we were to show no more, but that the apprehensions of the parents, may descend to the children.  
Out of this discourse, the reason appeareth, why beasts have an aversion from those, who use to do them harm: and why this aversion descendeth from the old ones to their brood; though it should never have happened that they had formerly encountered with, what at the first sight they fly from and avoid.  

4 Of Antipaties.  But yet the reason appeareth not, why (for example) a sheep in England (where there are no wolves bred, nor have been these many ages) should be afraid, and tremble at sight of a wolf, since neither he, nor his dam or sire, nor theirs in multitudes of generations, ever saw a wolf, or received hurt by any. In like manner, how should a tame weasel brought into England from Ireland (where there are no poisonous creatures) be afraid of a toad as soon as he seeth one? Neither he, nor any of his race, ever had any impressions following harm, made upon their fantasies: and as little can a lion receive hurt from a household cock: therefore we must seek the reasons of these and such like antipathies, a little further, and we shall find them hanging upon the same string, with sympathies proportionable to them.  
Let us go by degrees: we daily see that dogs, will have an aversion from glovers, that make their ware of dog's skins: they will bark at them, and be churlish to them, and not endure to come near them, although they never saw them before. The like hatred they will express to the dog killers in the time of the plague, and to those that flay dogs. I have known of a man that used to be employed in such affairs, who passing sometimes over the grounds near my mother's house (for he dwelled at a village not far off) the dogs would wind him at a very great distance, and would all run furiously out the way he was, and fiercely fall upon him; which made him go always well provided for them: and yet he hath been sometimes hard put to it, by the fierce mastiffs there, had it not been for some of the servants coming in to his rescue; who by the frequent happening of such accidents, were warned to look out when they observed so great commotion and fury in the dogs, and yet perceived no present cause for it. Warreners observe, that vermin will hardly come into a trap, wherein an other of their kind hath been lately killed: and the like happeneth in mousetraps, into which no mouse will come to take the bait, if a mouse or two have already been killed in it; unless it be made very clean, so that no sent of them remain upon the trap: which can hardly be done on the sudden otherwise then by fire.  
It is evident, that these effects are to be referred, to an activity of the object upon the sense; for some smell of the skins, or of the dead dogs, or of the vermin, or of the mice, can not choose but remain upon the men and upon the traps; which being altered from their due nature and temper, must needs offend ●h●m. Their conformity on the one side (for something of the canine nature remaineth) maketh them have easy ingression into them; and so they presently make a deep impression: but on the other side, their distemper from what they should be, maketh the impression repugnant to their nature, and be disliked by them, and to affect them worse, then if they were of other creatures, tha● had no conformity with them: as we may observe, that stinks offend us more, when they are accompanied with some weak perfume, then if they set upon us single; for the perfume getteth the stink easier admittance into our sense: and in like manner, it is said that poisons are more dangerous, when they are mingled with a cordial that is not able to resist them: for it serveth to convey them to the hart, though it be not able to overcome their malignity.  
From hence then it followeth, that if any beast or bird do prey upon some of an other kind, there will be some smell about them, exceedingly noisome to all others of that kind: and not only to beasts of that same kind, but (for the same reason) even to others likewise, that have a correspondence and agreement of temper and constitution with that kind of beast, whose hurt is the original cause of this aversion. Which being assented unto, the same reason holdeth to make those creatures, whose constitutions and tempers do consist of things repugnant and odious to one an other, beat perpetual enmity, and fly from one an other at the first sight, or at the least, the sufferer from the more active creature: as we see among those men, whose unhappy trade and continual exercises it is to empty iakeses, such horrid stinks are by time grown so conformable to their nature, as a strong perfume will as much offend them, and make them as sick, as such stinks would do an other man bred up among perfumes: and a cordial to their spirits, is some noisome smell, that would almost poison an other man. And thus, if in the breath of the wolf, or in the steam coming from his body, be any quality offensive to the lamb (as it may very well be, where there is so great a contrariety of natures) it is not strange, that at the first sight and approach of him, he should be distempered and fly from him; as one fight cock will do from an other, that hath eaten garlic: and the same happeneth between the weasel and the toad, the lion and the cock, the toad and the spider, and several other creatures, of whom like enmities are reported.  
All which are caused in them, not by secret instincts, and antipathies, and sympathies, whereof we can give no account; (with the bare sound of which words, most men do pay themselves, without examining what they mean;) but by down right material qualities, that are of contrary natures (as fire and water are) and are either begotten in them in their original constitution, or are implanted in them afterwards by their continual food, which nourishing them, changeth their constitution to its complexion. And I am persuaded this would go so far, that if one man were nourished continually with such meat (and greedily affected it) which an other had aversion from, there would naturally follow much dislike between them; unless some superior regard, should master this aversion of the sense. And I remember to have seen two notable examples of it: the one in Spain, of a Gentleman that had a horror to garlic, who (though he was very subject to the impressions of beauty) could never wean himself from an aversion he had settled him to a very handsome woman, that used to eat much garlic, though to win him, she forebore the use of that meat, which to her was the most savoury of all others. And the like I knew in England between two, whereof the one did extremely love cheese, and the other as much hated it, and would fall into a strange agony, and be reduced (one would think) to the point of death, if by inaduertence or others trial of him, he had swallowed never so little, of what the other would have quitted all meats else to live upon.  
And not only such aversions, as spring from differences of complexions in the constitutions of several animals, do cause these effects of fear, and of trembling, and of flying from those that do make such impressions; but even the seeing them angry and in fury doth the like: for such passions do alter the spirits; and they issuing from the body of the animal in passion, can not choose but be received by an other in a different manner, then if they were of an other temper. Then if the one kind be agreeable to their nature, the other must needs be displeasing. And this may be the reason why bees never sting such as are of a mild and gentle disposition; and will never agree with others, that are of a froward and angry nature. And the same one may observe among dogs: and peradventure, a man's fantasy may be raised to such a height of fury, that the fiercest beasts may be afraid to look upon him; and can not endure that those mastering spirits, which stream out of the man's eyes should come into his; so much they distemper his fantasy: and therefore he will turn away from the man, and avoid him. Which discourse may be confirmed by sundry examples of lions and bears, that have run from angry and confident men, and the like. Since then, a man that in his natural hue giveth no distaste, doth so much affright fiercest beasts, when he putteth on his threatening looks; it is no wonder, that beasts of a milder and softer nature, should have fear of him settled in them, when they never saw him otherwise then angry, and working mischief to them. And since their brood do receive from their parents, a nature easily moved unto fear or anger, by the sight of what moved them, it is not strange, that at the first sight, they should tremble or swell, according as the inward motion of the spirits affordeth.  
Now if this hath rendered the birds in the wild Islands afraid of men, who otherwise would be indifferent to them, it is no marvel to see more violent effects in the lambs aversion from the wolf, or in the larks from the hobbey; since they peradventure have over and above the hurt they use to do them, a di●formity in their constitutions: and therefore, though a lark will fly as well from a man as from a hobbey, yet because there is one cause more for his dislike against the hobbey, then against the man (namely the di●formity of their constitutions) he will fly into the man's hand, to avoid the hawks talons.  
Unto some of these causes all antipathies may be reduced: 
5 O● Sympaties.  and the like reason may be given for the sympathies we see between some creatures. The little corporeities which issue from the one, have such a conformity with the temper of the other, that it is thereby moved to join itself unto the body from whence they flow, and affecteth union with it in that way, as it receiveth the impression. If the smell do please it, the beast will always be smelling at it: if the taste, nothing shall hinder it from feeding upon it when it can reach it. The fishermen upon the bank over against newfound land, do report that there flocketh about them a kind of bird, so greedy of the fishes livers which they take there, as that to come at them and feed upon them, they will suffer the men to take them in their hands; and will not fly away, as long as any of their desired meat is in their eye: whence the French men that fish there, do call them Hap foyes. The like power, a certain worm hath with nigthingales.  
And thus you see, how they are strong impressions upon sense, and not any discourse of reason, that do govern beasts in their actions: for if their avoiding men, did proceed from any sagacity in their nature, surely they would exercise it, when they see that for a bit of meat they incur their destruction▪ and yet neither the examples of their fellows killed before their eyes in the same pursuit, nor the blows which themselves do seel; can serve them for warning, where the sense is so strongly affected: but as soon as the blow that removed them is passed, (if it misle killing or laming them) and they be gotten on wing again, they will return to their prey as eagerly and as confidently, as if nothing were there to hinder them.  

6 That the Antipathy of beasts towards one an other, may be taken away by assuefaction.  This then being the true reason of all sympathy and antipathy, we can not admit that any beasts should love or hate one on other, for any other cause, than some of those we have touched. All which are reduced to local motion, and to material application of bodies of one nature, to bodies of an other; and are as well transmitted to their young ones, as begotten in themselves: and as the satisfying of their sense, is more prevalent in the Hap foyes, than the fear which from other grounds is begotten in their fantasy; and so maketh them approach to what the other would drive them from.  
In like manner, any aversion of the fantasy may be mastered not only by a more powerful agent upon the present sense, but also by assuefaction, and by bringing into the fantasy with pleasing circumstances that object which before was displeasing and affrightful to it: as we see that all sorts of beasts or birds, if they be taken young may be tamed and will live quietly together. Dogs that are used to hunt and kill dear, will live friendly with one that is bred with them; and that fawn which otherwise would have been afraid of them, by such education groweth confident and playeth boldly with them. Of which we can no longer remain in doubt, if we will believe the story of a tiger (accounted the cruelest beast of all others) who being shut up with a dear, that had been bred with him from a kid, and from his being a whelp; and no meat given him, used means to break prison, when was half starved, rather than he would hurt his familiar friend. You will not suspect, that it was a moral consideration, which made him so kind: but the dear had never come into his fantasy accompanied with other circumstances, then of play or of warmth: and therefore hunger (which calleth only the species of meat out of the memory into the fantasy) would never bring the dear thither, for remedy of that passion.  
And that which often happeneth to those men, in whom the fantasy only worketh, is not much unlike to this: among whom I have seen some frenetike persons, that if they be persuaded they are tied, and can not stir from the place where they are; they will lie still, and make great complaints for their imprisonnement; and not go a steep, to reach any meat or drink, that should lie in sight near them, although they were never so much pressed with hunger or with thirst. The reason is evident, for the apprehension of being tied, is so strong in their fantasy, that their fantasy can send no spirits into other parts of their body, whereby to cause motion.  
And thus the dear was beholding to the tigers fantasy, not to his discourse of moral honesty, for his life. The like of this tiger and dear, is to be seen every day in the tower of London▪ where a little dog, that was bred with a lion from his birth, is so familiar and bold with them, that they not only sleep together, but sometimes the dog will be angry with him, and will bite him; which the lion never ressenteth from him, though any other dog that is put to him, he presently teareth in pieces.  
And thus we plainly see, how it cometh about, that beasts may have strange aversions from things, which are of an annoying or destructive nature to them, even at the first sight of them: and again, may have great like of other things, in a manner contrary to their nature, without needing to allow them reason, whereby to discourse and judge what is hurtful to them, or to instruct the tiger we have spoken of, or Androdus his lion, the duties of friendship and of gratitude.  
The longing marks which are often times seen in children, 
7 Of longing marks seen in children.  and do remain with them all their life, seem to be an offspring of the same root or cause: but in truth, they proceed from an other, although of kin to this: for the operation of the seed is passed, when these longing marks are imprinted; the child being then already form and quickened; and they seem to be made suddenly, as by the print of a seal. Therefore to render the cause of them, let us consider an other sympathy which is more plain and common We see that the laughing of one man, will set an other on laughing that seeth him laugh, though he know not the cause why the first man laugheth: and the like we see in yawning and stretching, which breedeth alike effect in the looker on. I have heard of a man, that seeing a roasted pig, after our English fashion with the mouth gaping, could not shut his own mouth as long as he looked upon the pigs▪ and of an other, that when he saw any man make a certain motion with his hand, could not choose but he must make the same: so that, being a tiler by his trade, and having one hand employed with holding his tools, whiles he held himself with the other upon the eaveses of a house he was mending, a man standing below on the ground, made that sign or motion to him; whereupon he quitted his holdfast to imitate that motion, and fell down, in danger of breaking his neck.  
All these effects, do proceed out of the action of the seen object upon the fantasy of the looker on: which making the picture or likeness of its own action in the others fantasy, maketh his spirits run to the same parts; and consequently, move the same members, that is, do the same actions. And hence it is, that when we hear one speak with love and tenderness of an absent person, we are also inclined to love that person, though we never saw him, nor heard of him before: and that whatsoever a good orator delivereth well, (that is, with a semblance of passion agreeable to his words) raiseth of its own nature, like affection in the hearers: and that generally men learn and imitate (without design) the customs and manners of the company they much haunt.  
To apply this to our intent, it is easy to conceive, that although the child in the mother's womb, can neither see nor hear what the mother doth; nevertheless there can not pass any great or violent motion in the mother's body, whereof some effect doth not reach unto the child, which is then, one continuate piece with her: and the proper effect of motion or of trembling in one body, being to produce a like motion or a trembling in an other, (as we see in that ordinary example of tuned strings, whereof the one is moved at the striking of the other, by reason of the stroke given to the air, which finding a movable easily moved with a motion of the same tenor, communicateth motion unto it) it followeth that the fantasy of the child, being as it were well tuned to the fantasy of the mother, and the mother's fantasy making a special and a very quick motion in her own whole body, (as we see that sudden passions do) this motion or trembling of the mother, must needs cause the like motion and trembling in the child, even to the very swiftness of the mother's motion. Now as we see when one blusheth, the blood cometh into his face, so the blood runneth in the mother to a certain place, where she is strucken by the thing longed for: and the like happening to the child, the violence of that sudden motion, dyeth the mark or print of the thing in the tender skin of it: the blood in some measure piercing the skin, and not returning wholly into its natural course: which effect is not permanent in the mother, because her skin being harder, doth not receive the blood into it, but sendeth it back again, without receiving a tincture from it.  
far more easy is it, to discover the secret cause of many antipathies or sympathies, 
8 Why divers men hate some certain meats, and particularly cheese.  which are seen in children, and endure with them the greatest part, if not the whole term of their life, without any apparent ground for them: as, some do not love cheese, others garlic, others ducks, others divers other kinds of meat, which their parents loved well; and yet in token that this aversion is natural unto them, and not arising from some dislike accidentally taken and imprinted in their fantasy, they will be much harmed if they chance to eat any such meat; though by the much disguising it, they neither know, nor so much as suspect they have done so. The story of the Lady Hennage (who was of the bedchamber to the late Queen Elizabeth) that had her check blistered by laying a rose upon it whiles she was a sleep, to try if her antipathy against that flower, were so great as she used to pretend, is famous in the Court of England. A kinsman of mine, whiles he was a child, had like to have died of drought, before his nurse came to understand, that he had an antipathy against beer or wine; until the tender nature in him, before he could speak, taught him to make earnest signs for water, that by accident he saw; the greedy drinking of which, cured presently his long languishing and pining sickness: and such examples are very frequent.  
The cause of these effects many times is, that their mothers, upon their first suppression of their usual evacuations, (by reason of their being with child) took some strong dislike to such things, their stomaches being then oppressed by unnatural humours, which overflow their bodies upon such retentions; and which make them oftentimes sick and prone to vomiting, (especially in the mornings, whiles they are fasting) and sometimes to desire earnestly (which they call longing) to feed upon some unwholesome, as well as some particular wholesome things; and otherwhiles, to take aversion against meats, which at other seasons they affected well. Now the child being nourished by the so imbued blood of the mother, no wonder if it taketh affections or dislikes, conformable to those which at that present reign in the mother: the which for the most part used to be purged away, or are overwhelmed by the mastering qualities of better aliments succeeding: but if by some mischance, they become too much grafted in the child's stomach, or in some other part, through which the mass of blood must pass; then the child getteth an aversion from those meats: and we often see, that people retain a strong conversion to such meats or drinks, as their mothers affected much or longed for, whiles they bred child of them.  
And thus we will leave this particular; adding only one note, why there are more persons generally, who have antipathy against cheese, then against any one sort of meat besides whatsoever. A principal reason of which symptom (where the precedent one hath not place) I conceive to be, that their nurses proved with child, whiles they gave them suck for I have by experience found it to have been so, in as many as I have made inquiry into. And it is very conformable to reason; for the nurse's milk, curdling in her breast upon her breeding of child, and becoming very offensive to the child's tender stomach, (whose being sick obligeth the parents to change the nurse, though peradventure they know nothing of the true reason that maketh her milk unnatural) he hath a dislike of cheese (which is strong curdled milk) ever after settled in him; as people that have once surfeited violently of any meat, seldom arrive to brook it again.  
Now, 
9 Concerning the providence of Aunts in laying up in store for winter.  as concerning those animals who lay up in store for winter, and seem therein to exercise a rational providence; who seeth not, that it is the same humour, which moveth rich misers to heap up wealth, even at their last gasp, when they have no child nor friend to give it to, nor think of making any body their heirs? Which actions because they have no reason in them, are to be imputed to the passion or motion of the material appetite. In the doing of them, these steps may be observed; first the object presenting itself to the eye, provoketh love and desire of it; especially if it be joined with the memory of former want: then, this desire stirreth up the animal (after he hath fed himself) to gather into the place of his chief residence, as much of that desired object as he meeteth withal; and whensoever his hunger returning, bringeth back into his fantasy the memory of his meat, it being joined with the memory of that place (if he be absent from it) he presently repaireth thither, for relief of what presseth him: (and thus dogs wh●n they are hungry, do rake for bones they had hidden when ●heir bellies were full.) Now if this food, gathered by such providence (which is nothing else, but the conformity of it, working upon him by his sense) and lay●d up in the place, where the owner of it resideth, (as the corn is, which the aunts gather in summer) be easily portable, he will carry it abroad wi●h him the first time he stirreth after a long keeping in; for than nothing worketh so powerfully in his fantasy, as his store; and he will not easily part from it, though other circumstances invite him abroad. From hence it proceedeth, that when a fair day cometh after long foul weather, the aunts, who all that while kept close in their dens with their corn lying by them, do then come abroad into the sun, and do carry their grain along with them: or peradventure it happeneth, because the precedent wet weather, hath made it grow hot, or musty, or otherwise offensive within; and therefore they carry it out, as soon as themselves dare peep abroad; which is, when the fair weather, and heat of the day, inviteth them out into the open air: and before night that they return into their holes, the offensive vapours of the corn are exhaled and dried up, and move their fantasies no longer to aversion: whereupon they carry it back again; having than nothing but their long contracted love unto it to work upon them. The like whereof men doing by discourse, to air their corn, and to keep it sweet, and the same effect following herein, they will presently have it, that this is done by the aunts, for the same reason, and by design. Then the moisture of the earth swelling the grain, and consequently, making it begin to shoot at the ends (as we declared, when we spoke of the generation of plants; and as we see in the moistening of corn to make malt of it) those little creatures, finding that part of it more tender and ivicy than the rest, do nibble upon it there, and do feed themselves first with that, which consequently hindereth the groweth of the corn. And here again, men will contend that this must be done by providence and discourse, to prevent that their store should not grow out of their reach, and changing nature, become useless to them in their need.  

10 Concerning the foreknowing of beasts.  To conclude, the foreknowing of beasts is nothing else, but their timely receiving impressions, from the first degrees of mutation in things without them; which degrees are almost imperceptible to us, because our fantasies and spirits, h●ue otherwise such violent agitations, more than theirs, which hinder them from discerning gentle impressions upon them. If you be at sea, after along calm, a while before a gaile bloweth to fill your sails, or to be discernible by your sense in quality of wind, you shall perceive the sea begin to wrinkle his smooth face that way the wind will come; which is so infaillible a sign that a gaile will come f●om that coast, as mariners immediately fall to trimming their sails accordingly; and usually, before they can have done, the wind is with them: shall we therefore say that the sea hath a providence to foresee which way the wind will blow? Or that the corns upon our toes, or calluses, or broken bones, or joints that have been dislocated, have discourse, and can foretell the weather? It is nothing else, but that the wind rising by degrees, the smooth sea is capable of a change by it, before we can feel it: and that the air, being changed by the forerunners of worse weather, worketh upon the crasiest parts of our body, when the others feel not so small a change: so beasts are more sensible than we (for they have less to distract them) of the first degrees of a changing weather: and that mutation of the air without them, maketh some change within them, which they express, by some outward actions or gestures.  
Now they who observe, how such mutations and actions are constantly in them, before such or such weather, do think they know beforehand, that rain (for example) or wind, or drought is coming, according to the several signs they have marked in them: which proceedeth out of the narrowness of their discourse, that maketh them resort to the same causes, whensoever they mere with like effects: and so they conceive, that things must needs pass in beasts, after the same tenor, as they do in men. And this is a general, and main error, running through all the conceptions of mankind, unless great heed be taken to prevent it, that what subject soever they speculate upon, whether it be of substances, that have a superior nature to theirs, or whether it be of creatures inferior to them, they are still apt to bring them to their own standard, and to frame such conceptions of them, as they would do of themselves: as when they will have Angels discourse, and move, and be in a place, in such sort as is natural to men; or when they will have beasts rationate and understand, upon their observing some orderly actions performed by them, which in men would proceed from discourse and reason. And this dangerous rock (against which many fine conceptions do suffer shipperack●) whosoever studyeth truth, must have a main caution to avoid.  
Sed nos immensum spatijs confecimus aequor:  
Etiam tempus equum fumantia soluere colla.    

THE CONCLUSION OF THE FIRST TREATISE.  
THus at the last (by God's assistance) we are clymbed up to the top of the hill; from whence looking down over the whole region of bodies, we may delight ourselves, with seeing what a height the weary steps we ascended by, have brought us unto. It is true, the path we have walked in, is of late so untrodden, and so overgrown with briars▪ as it hath not been without much labour, that we have made our way through. And peradventure, it may seem toilsome unto others to follow us, especially such as are not much enured to like journeys: but I hope, the fruit which both we and they are now arrived to gather of our pains, in this general view we have taken of the empire of matter, and of corporeal agents, is such, as none of us hath reason to be ill satisfied with the employing of them. For what can more powerfully delight, or more nobl● entertain an understanding soul, than the search and discovery of those works of nature, which being in their effects so plainly exposed to our eyes, are in their causes so abstruse and hidden from our comprehension, as (through despair of success) they deter most men from enquiring into them?  
And I am persuaded, that by this summary discourse (short indeed in regard of so large a scope, how ever my lame expressions may peradventure make it appear tedious) it appeareth evidently, that none of nature's greatest secrets, whereof our senses give us notice in the effects, are so overshaded with an impenetrable veil, but that the diligent, and wary hand of reason, might unmask them, and show them to us in their naked and genuine forms, and delight us with the contemplation of their native beauties; if we had as much care and constancy in the pursuit of them, as we daily see men have in heaping up of wealth; or in striving to satisfy their boundelesse ambitions; or in making their senses swim in the muddy lake of base and contemptible pleasures. For who shall thoroughly consider and weigh what we have hitherto said, will plainly see a continual and orderly progress, from the simplest, highest, and most common conception, that we frame of a body in general, unto the furthest and most abstruse effects, that in particular are to be found in any body whatsoever: I mean, any that is merely corporeal, without mixture of a nobler nature; for hitherto we have not moved, nor so much as looked out of that obbe. He shall find one continued third, spun out from the beginning to the end. He will see, that the various twisting of the two specieses of Bodies, Rare, and Dense, do make the yarn, of which all things and actions within the sphere of matter, are woven.  
And although peradventure, in the drawing out of the third, there may be some little bracks, or the stuff made of it, be not every where so close wrought, as a better workman, at more leisure might have done; yet truly, I believe, that the very consent of things throughout is such, as demonstrateth, that the main contexture of the doctrine I have here touched, is beyond quarrelling at. It may well be that in sundry particulars, I have not lighted upon exact truth: and I am so far from maintaining peremptorily any thing I have here said, as I shall most readily ha●ken to whatsoever shall be objected against it; and be as ready upon cause, to desert my own opinions, and to yield unto better reason. But withal, I conceive, that as the failing of a brick here and there in the rearing of the walls of a house, doth nothing at all prejudice the strength and security of the fabric; no more (I hope) will the slight escapes, which so difficult a task as this is subject unto, endamage or weaken the main body of what I have here delivered. I have not yet seen any piece upon this subject, made up with this method; beginning from the simplest and plainest notions, and composing them orderly, till all the principal variety which their nature is capable of, be gone through: and therefore it can not be expected, but that the first model of this kind (and moulded by one distracted with continual thoughts of a much different strain; and whose exercise, as well as profession, hath allowed him but little commerce with books and study) must needs be very rough hewed, and require a great deal of polishing. Which whosoever shall do, and be as exact and orderly in treating of Philosophy and Theology, as Mathematicians are in delivering their sciencies, I do assure myself, that Demonstrations might be made, and would proceed in them as currently, and the conclusions be as certain and as full, as in the Mathematics themselves. But that is not all: these demonstrations would have the odds exceedingly of the other, and be to us, inestimably more advantageous: for out of them, do spiring much higher and nobler effects, for man's use and life, than out of any Mathematical ones; especially when they extend themselves to the governement of Man as he is Man: which is an art, as far beyond all the rules of Physic, or other governement of our body, or temporal goods, as the end is beyond the means we employ to gain it; for all the others, do but serve instrumentally to this end, That we may live well: whereas these do immediately teach it.  
These are the fruits in general, that I hope may in some measure, grow out of this discourse, in the hands of equal and judicious Readers: but the particular aim of it, is to show what actions can proeeed from a body, and what can not. In the conduct whereof, one of our chief endeavours hath been to show, that those actions which seem to draw strongly into the order of bodies, the unknown nature of certain entities named Qualities, either do or may proceed, from the same causes, which produce those known effects, that all sides agree, do not stand in need of any such mystical Philosophy. And this being the main hinge, upon which hangeth and moveth, the full and clear resolving of our maine, and great question, Of the Immortality of the Soul; I assure myself, the pains I have taken in this particular, will not be deemed superfluous or tedious: and withal, I hope I have employed them with so good success, as hence forward, we shall not be any more troubled, with objections drawn from their hidden and incomprehensible nature: and that we stand upon even ground, with those of the contrary opinion: for since we have showed how all actions may be performed among bodies, without having any recourse to such Entities and Qualities as they pretend and paint out to us; it is now their part (if they will have them admitted) to prove that in nature there are such.  
Having th●n brought the Philosophy of bodies unto these terms; that which remaineth for us to perform, is to show th●t those actions of our soul, for which we call her a spirit, are of such a nature, as they can not be reduced into those principles, by which all corporeal actions are effected. For the proof of our original intent, no more than this, can be exacted at our hands; so that if our positive proofs, shall carry us yet beyond this, it can not be denied, but that we give overmeasure, and do illustrate with a greater light, what is already sufficiently discerned. In our proceeding, we have the precedency of nature: for laying for our ground, the natural conceptions which mankind maketh of quantity; we find that a body is a mere passive thing, consisting of divers parts, which by motion may be diversely ordered; and consequently, that it is capable of no other change or operation, than such as motion may produce, by various ordering the divers parts of it: and then, seeing that Rare and Dense, is the primary and adequate division of Bodies; it followeth evidently, that what can not be effected by the various disposition of rare and dense parts, can not proceed or be effected by a pure body: and consequently, it will be sufficient for us to show, that the motions of our souls are such: and they who will not agree to this conclusion, must take upon them to show, that our first premisse is defective; by proving that other unknown ways are necessary, for bodies to be wrought upon or to work by: and that the motion, and various ordering of rare and dense parts in them, is not cause sufficient for the effects we see among them. Which whosoever shall attempt to do, must remember that he hath this disadvantage before he beginneth, that whatsoever hath been hitherto discovered in the science of bodies, by the help, either of Mathematics or Physics, it hath all been resolved and hath fallen, into this way which we declare.  
Here I should set a period to all further discourse concerning this first Treatise of bodies, did I not apprehend, that the prejudice of Aristotle's authority, may dispose many to a harsh conceit of the draught we have made. But if they knew how little reason they have to urge that against us, they would not cry us down for contradicting that oracle of nature: not only because he himself, both by word, and by example, exhorteth us, when verity leadeth us an other way, to forsake the tracks, which our forefathers have beaten for us, so we do it with due respect and gratitude for the much they have left us: nor yet because Christian Religion, as it will not hear of any man (purely a man) free from sin, so it inclineth to persuade us, that no man can be exempt from error; and therefore it savoureth not well, to defend peremptorily any man's sayings (especially if they be many) as being uncontrollable; how be it I intent not to prejudice any person, that to defend a worthy author's honour, shall endeavour to vindicate him from absurdities and gross errors: nor last because it hath ever been the common practice of all grave Peripatetikes and Thomists, to leave their Masters, some in one article, some in an other: but indeed, because the very truth is, that the way we take, is directly the same solid way, which Aristotle walked in before us: and they who are scandalised at us for leaving him, are exceedingly mistaken in the matter: and out of the sound of his words (not rightly understood) do frame a wrong sense of the doctrine he hath left us, which generally we follow.  
Let any unpartial Aristotelian answer, whether the conceptions we have delivered of Quamtity, of Rarity and Density, of the four first Qualities, of the combinations of the Elements, of the repugnance of vacuities, be not exactly and rigorously Aristotle's? Whether the motion of weighty and light things, and of such as are forced, be not by him, as well as by us, atttibuted to extern causes? In which all the difference between us is, that we enlarge ourselves to more particulars than he hath done. Let any man read his books of Generation and Corruption, and say whether he doth not expressly teach, that mixtion (which he delivereth to be the generation or making of a mixed body) is done per minima; that is in our language and in one word, by atoms; and signifieth, that all the qualities, which are natural qualities following the composition of the Elements, are made by the mingling of the least parts or atoms of the said Elements; which is in effect to say, that all the nature of bodies, their qualities, and their operations, are compassed by the mingling of atoms: the showing and explicating of which, hath been our labour in this whole Treatise. Let him read his books of Meteores, and judge whether he doth not give the causes of all the effects he treateth of there, by mingling and separating of great and little, gross and subtle, fiery and watery, airy and earthy parts, just as we do. The same he doth in his Problems, and in his Parua naturalia, and in all other places, wheresoever he hath occasion to render Physically, the causes of Physical effects. The same do Hypocrates and Galen: the same, their Master Democritus; and with them the best sort of Physicians: the same do Alchemissts, with their Master Geber; whose maxim to this purpose, we cited above: the same do all natural Philosophers, either ancient commentatours of Aristotle, or else modern inquirers into natural effects, in a sensible and understandable way: as who will take the pains to look into them, will easily perceive. Wherefore, let any judicious Reader that hath looked further into Aristotle then only upon his Logical and Metaphysical works, judge whether in bulk our doctrine be not conformable to the course of his, and of all the best Philosophers that have been and are; though in detaile or particulars, we sometimes mingle therewith, our own private judgements; as every one of them, hath likewise showed us the way to do, by the liberty themselves have taken to descent in some points from their predecessors.  
And were it our turn, to declare and teach Logic and Metaphisikes', we should be forced to go the way of matter, and of forms, and of privations, in such sort as Aristotle hath trodden it out to us, in his works of that strain. But this is not our task for the present; for no man that contemplateth nature as he aught, can choose but see that these notions are no more necessary, when we consider the framing of the elements, then when we examine the making of compounded bodies: and therefore, these are to be set apart, as higher principles, and of an other strain, then need be made use of for the actual composition of compounded things, and for the resolution of them into their material ingredients, or to cause their particular motions; which are the subjects we now diseourse of.  
Upon this occasion, I think it not amiss to touch, how the latter sectatours, or rather pretenders of Aristotle, (for truly they have not his way) have introduced a model of doctrine (or rather of ignorance) out of his words, which he never so much as dreamt of; howbeit they allege texts out of him to confirm what they say, as Heretics do out of scripture to prove their assertions: for whereas he called certain collections or positions of things, by certain common names (as the art of Logic requireth) terming some of them Qualities, others actions, others places, or habits, or relatives, or the like: these his latter followers, have conceited that these names did not design a concurrence of sundry things, or a divers disposition of the parts of any thing, out of which some effect resulted; which the understanding considering all together, hath expressed the notion of it by one name: but have imagined, that every one of these names had correspondent unto it, some real positive entity or thing, separated (in its own nature) from the main thing or substance in which it was, and indifferent to any other substance; but in all unto which it is linked, working still that effect, which is to be expected from the nature of such a quality, or action, etc. And thus, to the very negatives of things, as to the names of points, lines, instantes, and the like, they have imagined positive Entities to correspond: likewise, to the names of actions, places, and the like, they have framed other Entities: as also to the names of colours, sounds, tastes, smells, touches, and the rest of the sensible qualities, they have unto every one of them, allotted special Entities; and generally to all qualities whatsoever. Whereas nothing is more euident, then that Aristotle meaned by qualities no other thing, but that disposition of parts, which is proper to one body, and is not found in all: as you will plainly see, if you but examine, what beauty, health, agility, science, and such other qualities are; (for by that name he calleth them; and by such examples, giveth us to understand what he meaneth by the word Quality) the first of which is nothing else, but a composition of several parts and colours, in due proportion to one an other: the next, but a due temper of the humours, and the being of every part of the body, in the state it should be: the third, but a due proportion of the spirits and strength of the sinews: and the last, but ordered Phantasms.  
Now when these perverters of Aristotle have framed such Entities, under that conception which nature hath attributed to substances, they do immediately upon the nick, with the same breath that described them as substances, deny them to be substances: and thus they confound the first apprehensions of nature, by seeking learned and strained definitions for plain things. After which, they are fain to look for glue and passed, to join these entities unto the substance they accompany: which they find with the same facility, by imagining a new Entity, whose nature it is to do that which they have need of.  
And this is the general course of their Philosophy; whose great subtlety, and quaint speculations in enquiring how things do come to pass afford no better satisfaction then to say upon every occasion, that there is an Entity which maketh it be so. As if you ask them, how a wall is white, or black? They will tell you, there is an Entity or Quality, whose essence is to be whiteness or blackness, diffused through the wall. If you continue to ask, how doth whiteness stick to the wall? They reply, that it is by means of an Entity called Union, whose nature it is actually to join whiteness and the wall together. And then if you inquire how it cometh to pass, that one white is like an other? They will as readily answer, that this is wrought by an other Entity, whose nature is to be likeness, and it maketh one thing like an other. The consideration of which doctrine, maketh me remember a ridiculous tale of a truant schooleboyes latin: who upon a time when he came home to see his friends, being asked by his father, what was latin for bread? answered breadibus; and for beer? beeribus; and the like of all other things he asked him, adding only a termination in Bus, to the plain English word of every one of them: which his father perceiving and (though ignorant of Latin) yet presently apprehending, that the mysteries his son had learned, deserved not the expense of keeping him at school, bade him immediately put of his hosibus and shoosibus, and fall to his old trade of treading Morteribus. In like manner, these great Clerks do as readily find a pretty Quality or mood, whereby to render the nature or causes of any effect in their easy Philosophy, as this Boy did a Bus to stamp upon any English word, and coin it into his mockelatine.  
But to be serious, as the weight of the matter requireth, let these so peremptory pretenders of Aristotle, show me but one text in him, where he admitteth any middle distinction (such as those modern Philosophers do, and must needs admit, who maintain the qualities we have rejected) betwixt that which he calleth numerical, and that which he calleth of Reason, or of Notion, or of Definition, (the first of which we may term to be of, or in things; the other to be in our heads, or discourses: or the one Natural, the other Logical:) and I will yield that they have reason, and that I have grossly mistaken what he hath written, and that I do not reach the depth of his sense. But this they will never be able to do.  
Besides, the whole scope of his doctrine, and all his discourses and intentions, are carried throughout, and are built upon the same foundations, that we have laid for ours. Which being so, no body can quarrel with us for Aristotle's sake; who as he was the greatest Logician, and Metaphysitian, and Universal scholar peradventure that ever lived; and was so highly esteemed, that the good turn which Sylla did the world in saving his works, was thought to recompense his many outrageous cruelties and tyranny; so his name must never be mentioned among scholars, but with reverence, for his unparallelled worth; and with gratitude for the large stock of knowledge he hath enriched us with. Yet withal we are to consider, that since his reign was but at the beginning of sciences, he could not chose but have some defects and shortenesses, among his many great and admirable perfections.   

THE SECOND TREATISE; DECLARING, THE NATURE AND OPERATIONS OF MAN'S SOUL; OUT OF WHICH, THE IMMORTALITY OF REASONABLE SOULS, IS CONVINCED.  
Pro captu Lectoris, habent sua fata libelli.   

THE PREFACE.  
IT is now high time for us to cast an eye upon the other leaf of our accounts: or peradventure I may more properly say, to fall to the perusal of our own accounts: for hitherto, our time and pains have been taken up, in examining and casting the accounts of others: to the end, that from the foot and total of them, we may drive on our own the more smoothly. In ours then, we shall meet with a new Capital; we shall discover a new world, of a quite different strain and nature from that which all this while we have employed ourselves about. We will enter into them, with taking a survey of the great Master of all that large family, we have so summarily viewed: I mean of Man, as he is Man: that is, not as he is subject to those laws whereby other bodies are governed (for therein he hath no praeeminence, to raise him out of their throng:) but as he exceedeth the rest of creatures, which are subject to his managing: and as he ruleth over nature herself, making her serve his designs; and subiecting her noblest powers, to his laws, and as he is distinguished from all other creatures whatsoever. To the end we may discover, whether that principle in him, from whence those actions do proceed which are properly his, be but some refined composition, of the same kind we have already treated of: or whether it deriveth its source and origine, from some higher spring and stock, and be of a quite different nature.  
Having then by our former Treatise mastered the oppositions, which else would have taken arms against us, when we should have been in the midst of our edifice; and having cleared the objections which lay in our way, from the perverse Qualities of the soul's neighbours, the several common wealths of Bodies: we must now begin with David to gather together our Materials; and to take a survey of our own provisions: that so we may proceed with Solomon, to the sacred building of God's temple. But before we go about it, it will not be amiss, that we show the reason, why we have made our porch so great, and have added so long an entry, that the house is not likely to have thereunto a correspondent bulk: and when the necessity of my doing so, shall appear, I hope my pains will meet with a favourable censure, and receive a fair admittance.  
We proposed unto ourselves to show that our souls are immortal: whereupon, casting about to find the grounds of immortality, and discerning it to be a negative, we conceived that we ought to begin our search, with enquiring What Mortality is; and what be the causes of it. Which when we should have discovered, and have brought the soul to their teste, if we found they trenched not upon her, nor any way concerned her condition, we might safely conclude, that of necessity she must be immortal. Looking then into the causes of mortality, we saw that all bodies round about us were mortal: whence perceiving that mortality extended itself as far as corporeity, we found ourselves obliged, if we would free the soul from that law, to show that she is not corporeal. This could not be done without enquiring what corporeity was. Now it being a rule among Logicians, that a definition can not be good, unless it comprehend and reach to every particular of that which is defined; we perceived it impossible to know completely, what a Body is, without taking a general view of all those things, which we comprise under the name and meaning of Bodies. This is the cause, we spent so much time in the first Treatise: and I hope to good purpose; for there we found, that the nature of a Body, consisted in being made of parts: that all the differences of bodies, are reduced to having more or less parts, in comparison to their substance, thus and thus ordered: and lastly, thall all their operations, are nothing else but local motion, which followeth naturally out of having parts. So as it appeareth evidently from hence, that if any thing have a being, and yet have no parts; it is not a body, but a substance of an other quality and condition: and consequently, if we can find the souls Being to be without parts, and that her operations, are no local translation▪ we evidently conclude her to be an immaterial or spiritual substance.  
Peradventure it may be objected, that all this might have been done a much shorter way than we have taken; and that we needed not have branched our discourse, into so many particulars, nor have driven them so home, as we have done: but that we might have taken our first rise from this ground, (which is as evident, as light of Reason can make it) that seeing we know bigness and a Body, to be one and the same, as well in the notion as in the thing; it must of necessity follow, that what hath not parts, nor worketh, nor is wrought upon by division, is not a body. I confess, this objection appeareth very reasonable, and the consideration of it weighed so much with me, as, were all men of a free judgement, and not imbued with artificial errors, I would for its sake, have saved myself a great deal of pains: but I find (as in the former Treatise I have frequently complained of) that there is crept into the world a fancy so contrary to this pregnant truth, and that it is so deeply settled in many men's minds (and not of the meanest note,) as all we have said, is peradventure too little to root it out.  
If any that being satisfied with the rational maxim we even now mentioned, and therefore hath not deemed it needful, to employ his time in reading the former Treatise, should wish to know how this is come to pass, I shall here represent unto him, the sum of what I have more at large scattered in several places of the former Treatise; and shall entreat him to consider, how nature teacheth us to call the proprieties of things whereby one is distinguished from an other, the Qualities of those things; and that according to the varieties of them, they have divers names suited out to divers of them; some being called Habits, others Powers; and others by other names. Now what Aristotle, and the learned Grecians did mean by these things, is clear by the examples they give of them: they term Beauty and Health, Habits: the dispositions of our bodies to our bodily motions, Powers; as strength (which is the good temper of the sinews) a Power; likewise Agility, a Power; so they use the names of the concoctive, the nutritive, the retentive, the excretive, Power; the health of the eyes, the ears, the nosethrills, &c: they call the Powers of seeing, of hearing, of smelling, &c: and the like of many others. But later Philosophers, being very disputative, and desiring to seem ignorant of nothing (or rather, to seem to know more than any that are gone before them and to refine their conceptions) have taken the notions, which by our first Masters were set for common and confused explications of the natures, (to serve for conveniency and succinctenesse of discourse) to be truly and really particular Entities, or things of themselves: and so have filled their books, and the schools, with unexplicable opinions, out of which no account of nature can be given: and which is worse, the way of searching on, is barred to others; and a mischievous error is grown into men's beliefs, that nothing can be known. By this means they have choked the most plain and evident definition of a body; bringing so many instances against it, that unwary men are forced to desert and deny the very first notions of nature and reason: for in truth, they turn all bodies into spirits, making (for example) hear, or cold, to be of itself indivisible, a thing by itself, whose nature is not conceivable; not the disposition or proportion of the parts of that body which is said to be hot or cold; but a real thing, that hath a proper Being and nature peculiar to itself; whereof they can render you no account: and so, may as well be against the notion of a body as not: for if light, the virtue of the loadstone, the power of seeing, feeling &c, be things that work without time, i● an instant; if they be not the dispositions of parts as parts, (whose nature is, to be more or less, to be next or far off, &c:) how can it be truly said, that the notion of a body, is to be of parts? For if this be a true definition of a body, it followeth that all corporeal qualities and actions must likewise be some disposition and order of parts as parts: and that what is not so, is no body, nor bodily quality or propriety.  
This than was it that obliged me to go so far about, and to show in common, how all those effects which are so much admired in bodies, are, or may be made and continued by the sole order of quantitative parts and local motion: this hath forced us to anatomise nature, and to begin our dissection, with what first occurreth unto our sense from a body. In doing which, out of the first and most simple notion of bigness or Quantity, we found out the prime division of Bodies, into Rare and Dense: then finding them to be the Qualities of dividing and of being divided (that is, of local motion) we gained knowledge of the common properties of Gravity and Levity: from the combination of these, we retriued the four first Qualities: and by them, the Elements. When we had agreed how the Elements were made, we examined how their action and composition, raiseth those second qualities, which are seen in all mixed bodies, and do make their divisions. Thence, proceeding into the operations of life, we resolved, they are composed and ordered merely by the varieties of the former: nay, that sense and fantasy (the highest things we can discern out of man) have no other source, but are subject to the laws of parts, and of Rarity and Density; so that in the end we became assured of this important Maxim: That nothing whatsoever we know to be a Body, can be exempted from the declared laws, and orderly motions, of Bodies: unto which, let us add two other positions, which fell also within our discovery: the first that it is constantly found in nature, that none of the bodies we know, do move themselves; but their motion must be founded in some thing without them: the second, that no body moveth an other, unless itself be also moved: and it will follow evidently out of them, (if they be of necessity and not prevaricable) that some other Principle beyond bodies, is required to be the root and first ground of motion in them: as Mr. White hath most acutely and solidely demonstrated, 
Dialog: 3o. Nodo 2º.  in that excellent work, I have so often cited in my former Treatise.  
But it is time we should fall to our intended discourse, leaving this point settled by what we have already said, that if we show our soul, and her operations, to be not composed of parts, we also therein conclude, that she is a spiritual substance, and not a body. Which is our design and intention in this Treatise.  
And for this intent, we must look upon those actions of man, which are peculiarly his: and upon those things which result out of them, and are called, Opera or labores hominum; as houses, Towns, Tillage, Handicrafts, Arms, ships, Commonwealthes, Armies, Books, and the like; in which great men's lives and thoughts have beeve spent. In all these we find one general third, to run quite through them; and that all of them are composed of the same stuff, and are built upon the same foundation: which is, a long chain of discourses, whereof every little part or link is that which scholars do call a Syllogism: and Syllogisms we know are framed of enuntiations; and they of single or uncomposed apprehensions. All which are actions wrought by the understanding of a man. But beyond these, we can not proceed to any further subdivision of parts, and contain ourselves within the orb of humane Actions; for simple apprehensions, can not be further resolved into other parts, beyond the degree of apprehensions, and yet still remain actions peculiar to a man: so that we may be sure, we shall have left nothing out of enquiry, concerning Man's actions as he is Man, if we begin with anatomising his first bare apprehensions; and so go on by degrees, compounding them, till we come to fathom those great and admirable machine's of books and works, which he (as I may say) weaveth out of his own bowels; and the like of which, is done by no other creature whatsoever, upon the face of our contemptible Earth.  
These then (which are all comprised under the names of Apprehensions, of Enuntiations or judgements, and of Discourses) shall be the subject of this second Treatise: and in it, we will first consider these operations in themselves; which being done, we will endeavour to prove out of the nature and manner of performing them, that the souls unto whom they belong, are Immaterial and Immortal.   

THE SECOND TREATISE; DECLARING, THE NATURE AND OPERATIONS OF MAN'S SOUL.  

THE FIRST CHAPTER. Of simple Apprehensions.  
THAT we may duly understand, 
1 What is a right apprehension of a thing.  what a right Apprehension is, let us consider the preeminence that a man who apprehendeth a thing rightly, hath over him who misseth of doing so. This latter can but rove wildly at the nature of the thing he apprendeth; and will never be able to draw any operation into act, out of the apprehension he hath framed of it. As for example: if a man be to work upon gold, and by reason of its resemblance unto brass, hath form an apprehension of brass, instead of an apprehension of gold, and then (knowing that the action of fire, will resolve brass into its least parts, and sever its moist from its dry ones) will go about to calcine gold in the same manner as he would do brass; he will soon find that he looseth his labour; and that ordinary fire is not an adequate Agent to destroy the homogeneal nature, and to sever the minute parts of that fixed mettle: all which happeneth, out of the wrong apprehension he hath made of gold. Whereas on the other side, he that apprehendeth a thing rightly, if he pleaseth to discourse of what he apprehendeth, findeth in his apprehension all the parts and qualities, which are in the thing he discourseth of: for example, if he apprehendeth rightly a knife, or a beetle, or a siwe, or any other thing whatsoever; in the knife he will find haft and blade; the blade of iron, thick on the back, and thin on the edge; tempered to be hard and tough; thus beaten, so ground, in such manner softened, thus quenched, and whatsoever else concerneth the Being or the making of a knife: and all this he draweth out of his notion or apprehension of a knife; which is, that it is an instrument fitted to cut such and such things, in such a manner: for hence he findeth, that it hath an haft, fit to hold it by in ones hand, to the end it may not hurt the hand, whiles it presseth upon the knife; and that the blade is apt to flide in betwixt the parts of the thing which is to be cut, by the motion of being pressed or drawn by the hand: and so he proceedeth on, descending to the qualities of both parts; and how they are to be joined, and held fast together. In the like manner, he discourseth of a beetle, of a siwe, or of whatsoever else cometh in his way. And he doth this, not only in such manufacturers as are of man's invention; but (if he be capable) he doth the like in beasts, in birds, in trees, in herbs, in fishes, in fossiles, and in what creature soever he meeteth withal, within the whole extent of nature. He findeth what they are made for: and having discovered natures aim in their production, he can instruct others, what parts and manner of generation they have, or aught to have: and if he that in this manner apprehendeth any thing rightly, hath a mind to work upon it, either to make it, or to use and order it to some end of his own; he is able by his right apprehension, to compare it unto other things; to prepare what is any way fitting for the making of it; to apply it unto what it will work its effect upon; and to conserve it from what may wrong or destroy it: so, if he have framed a right apprehension of a siwe, he will not employ it in drawing water; if of a beetle, he will not go about to cut with it: neither will he offer, if he have a due apprehension of a knife, to cut stone or steel with it, but wood, or what is softer. He knoweth what will whet and maintain the edge of it; and vnderstandeth what will blunt or break it: In fine, he useth it in such sort, as the knife itself (had it knowledge and will) would wish to be used; and moveth it in such a manner, as if it had power of motion, it would move itself: he goeth about the making it, even as nature would do, were it one of her plants: and in a word, the knife in this apprehension made in the man, hath those causes, proprieties, and effects, which are natural unto it; and which nature would give it, if it were made by her; and which are propotionable to those parts, causes, proprieties, and effects, that nature bestoweth on her children and creatures, according to their several essences.  

2 The very thing itself is truly in his understanding who rightly apprehendeth it.  What then can we imagine, but that the very nature of a thing apprehended, is truly in the man, who doth apprehend it? And that to apprehend aught, is to have the nature of that thing within one's self? And that man, by apprehending, doth become the thing apprehended; not by change of his nature unto it, but by assumption of it unto his?  
Here peradventure some will reply, that we press our inference to far: and will peremptorily deny the things real being in our mind, when we make a true and full apprehension of it; accounting it sufficient for our purpose, that some likeness, or image of the thing be there; out of which, we may draw all th●se, whether contemplations, or works, or disposals of the thing. But by that time this objection is throughly looked into, and that so much as they allow is duly examined, I believe we shall find our quarrel to be only about the word, not about the matter: and that indeed, both of us, do mean the same, how be it diversely conceived: and that in substance their expression, in what they grant, importeth the same of ours doth: which, it is true, they first deny in words; but that may be, because the thing is not by them rightly understood.  
Let us then discuss the matter particularly. What is likeness, but an imperfect unity between a thing, and that which it is said to be like unto? If the likeness be imperfect, it is more unlike than it is like unto it: and the liker it is, the more it is one with it; until at length, the growing likeness may arrive to such a perfection, and to such a unity with the thing it is like unto, that then, it shall no longer be like, but is become wholly the same, with what formerly it had but a resemblance of. For example, let us consider, in what consisteth the likeness unto a man, of a picture drawn inblacke and white representing a man: and we shall find, it is only in the proportions of the limbs and features; for the colours, the bulk, and all things else are unlike; but the proportions are the very same, in a man and in a picture; yet that picture is but a likeness, because it wanteth bigness and colour: give it them; and nevertheless it will yet be but a likeness, because it wanteth all the dimensions of corporeity or bulk, which are in a man's body: add also those to it; and still it will be but a likeness or representation of a man, because it wanteth the warmeth, the softness, and the other qualities of a living body, which belong to a man: but if you give it all these, than it is no longer a likeness or image of a living creature, but a living creature indeed; and if peradventure this living creature do continue still to be but the likeness of a man, it is because it wanteth some perfections or proprieties belonging to a man: and so in that regard, is unlike a man: but if you allow it all those, so that in nothing it be unlike, than your taking away all unlikeness, taketh away likeness too: and as before of dead, it became a living creature, so now of an other living creature, it becometh a man, and is no longer like a man. You see then plainly the reason, why that, which we call a like thing, is not the same; for in some part it is dislike: but if the likeness were complete in every regard, than it were no longer to be called like, but the very thing itself: and therefore we may conclude, that if the likeness of a thing, which the objection alloweth to be in our knowledge, do contain all that is in the thing known, than it is in truth, no more a likeness, but the very known thing itself: and so what they grant, amounteth to as much as we require; though at the first they go about to exclude it.  

3 The Apprehension of things coming unto us by our senses, are resoluable into other more simple apprehensions.  Having thus concluded, that when we apprehend any thing, that very thing is in us; let us in the next place examine, how it cometh thither, and what it is there. Which we shall best do, by anatomising, and looking narrowly into the nature of such apprehensions, as we daily make of things. It is true we said even now, that we can not divide the actions of man's mind, further than into apprehensions; and therefore we called them simple and uncomposed: and with good reason; for if we reflect upon the operations of our mind, we shall evidently perceive, that our bare apprehensions, and only they, are such: but withal we must acknowledge, that all the apprehensions we make of things coming unto us by our senses, are composed of other more single apprehensions, and may be resolved into them: all which are as it were the limbs and parts, that make up and constitute the other total one.  

4 The apprehension of a Being is the most simple and Basis of all the rest.  Let us make use of our former example, and dissect the apprehension we make of a knife: I find in my understanding that it is a thing so long, so broad, so sharp, so heavy, of such a colour, so moulded, so tempered &c, as is fit to cut withal. In this total apprehension, I discover three kinds of particular apprehensions, every one more simple and refined then the other. The highest of them, and the foundation upon which the others are built, is the notion of Being: which is of so high, and of so abstracted a nature, that we can not retrieve words to express in what manner we conceive it; but are fain to content ourselves with the outward sound of a word, by whi●h, without discribing our own, we stir up a like conception in an other: and that is the word ●s, by which we intimate the Being of the thing we apprehend. And this notion can be in our mind, without inferring any other: and therefore is the simplest of all others: which of necessity, must imply it, and can not be without it, although it can be without them.  

5 Th● apprehension of a thing is in next degree to that of Being, and it is the Basis of all the subsequent ones.  Our next apprehension is of that which hath Being: and is expressed by the word Thing. This is not so simple as the former▪ for it is composed of it, and of what receiveth it; of Being, and of what hath Being: yet it is much simpler than the next degree of apprehensions, which is caused in our mind by the great variety of things, that come thither through our senses; and can be conceived without any of them, though none of them can without it; for I can have in me the notion of a thing, abstracting from all accidents whatsoever; as of magnitude, of figure, of colour, of resemblance, or the like: but I can not conceive it to be long, or sharp, or blue, &c, without allowing it first to be somewhat or something, that is in such sort affected: so that the apprehension of a thing, or of that which hath Being, is the basis of all our other subsequent apprehensions; as the apprehension of Being, is the basis of the apprehension of a thing: for had it not Being, it were not a thing; and were it not a thing, it could not be said to be a long thing or a sharp thing; nor indeed that it were long or sharp: for to be so, doth include Being; and what hath Being, is a Thing. And thus we may observe, how the bulk of our apprehensions is composed of something adventitious, and of something formerly within us, which is of a very different nature from all the others; and yet so fitted and necessary to them, that none of them can be without it, although it not only can be, but is best conceived without relation to any of them.  
We shall easily discern, 
6 The apprehension of things known to us by our senses, doth consist in certain respects betwixt too things.  of how different a strain this conception of Being, is from all others, that enter by our senses, (as from the conceptions of colours, of sounds, and the like) if we but reflect upon that act in us, which maketh it; and then compare it with the others: for we shall find, that all they do consist in, or of certain respects betwixt two things; whereas this of Being, is an absolute and simple conception of itself, without any relation to aught else; and can not be described or expressed with other words, or by comparing it to any other thing: only we are sure, we understand and know what it is.  
But to make this point the clearer, it will not be amiss to show more particularly, wherein the other sort of apprehensions are different from this of Being; and how they consist in certain respects between different things, and are known only by those respects: whereas this is known only in itself; abstracting from all other things whatsoever. An example will do it best: when I apprehend the whiteness in the wall, I may consider how that white, is a thing which maketh such an impression upon my fantasy; and so accordingly, I know or express the nature of white, by a respect or proportion of the wall, to work upon my fantasy. In like manner, if we take a notion that ariseth out of what entereth immediately by our senses, (for by joining such also to the notion of Being, we make ordinary apprehensions) we shall find the same nature: as when I consider how this white wall, is like to an other white wall, the apprehension of likeness that I have in my mind, is nothing else, but a notion arising out of the impression, which both those walls together, do make upon my fantasy; so that, this apprehension is as the former, a certain kind of respect or proportion of the two walls to my imagination: not as they make their impressions immediately upon it, but as an other notion ariseth, out of comparing the several impressions, which those two white walls made in it.  
Let us proceed a little further, 
7 Respect or relation hath not really any formal being, but only in the apprehension of man.  and examine what kind of thing that is, which we call respect or proportion, and where it resideth. We shall find, that there is a very great difference, between what it is in itself, or in its own essence, and what it is in the things that are respective: for in them, it is nothing else but the things, being plainly and bluntly what they are really in themselves: as for example, two white walls to be like, is in them nothing else, but each of them to be white: and two quantities to be half and whole, is in them nothing else, but each quantity to be just what it is. But a respect in its own nature, is a kind of tye, comparison, tending, or order, of one of those things to an other; and is no where to be found in its formal subsistence, but in the apprehension of man: and therefore it can not be described by any similitude, nor be expressed by any means▪ but (like Being) by the sound of a word, which we are agreed upon to stir up in us such a notion; for in the things, it is not such a thing as our notion of it is: (which notion is that, which we use to express by prepositions and conjunctions, and which Aristotle and Logicians express in common, by the word 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, or ad) and therefore there is nothing out of us, to paint it by: as I could do white, or square, or round, or the like; because these have a being in the things that are white, or square &c, and consequently they may be expressed by others of the like nature: but the likeness that one white hath to an other, or the respect that either of them hath to man's imagination, is only in Man; who by comparing them, giveth birth to the nature and Being of respect. 
8 That Existence or being is the proper affection of man: and that man's soul is a comparing power.   
Out of this discourse, we may collect two singularities of man; which will much import us, to take particular notice of▪ the one is, that Being or a thing (the formal notion of both which is merely Being) is the proper affection of man; for every particular thing is in him, by being (as I may say) grafted upon the stock of Existence or of Being: and accordingly we see, that whatsoever we speak of, we say it is something: and whatsoever we conceive, we give it the nature of a thing; as when we have said, the wall is white, we frame whiteness as a thing: so did we immediately before speaking of Respect, we took respect as it were a thing and enquired, where it is: so that it is evident, that all the negotiation of our understanding, tradeth in all that is apprehended by it, as if they were things.  
The other singularity we may observe in man is, that he is a comparing power; for all his particular knowledges, are nothing else but respects or comparisons between particular things: as for example, for a man to know heat, or cold &c, is to know, what effects fire or water &c, can work upon such or such bodies.  

9 A thing by coming into the understanding of man, looseth nothing of its own peculiar nature.  Out of the first of these proprieties it followeth, that what affecteth a man, or maketh impression upon his understanding, doth not thereby lose its own peculiar nature, nor is it modifyed to the recipient; the contrary of which, we see happeneth perpetually in bodies: observe the sustenance we take; which that it may be once part of our body, is first changed into a substance like our body, and ceaseth being what it was: when water or any liquid body is received into a vessel, it looseth its own figure, and putteth on the figure of the vessel it is in: if heat entereth into a body that is already hot, that heat becometh thereby more heat; if into a cold body, it is converted into warmeth: and in like manner, all other corporeal things are accommodated to the qualities of the recipient; and in it, they lose their own proper terms and consistences: but what cometh into the understanding of a man, is in such sort received by him or joined to him, that it still retaineth its own proper limitations and particular nature▪ notwithstanding the assumption of it unto him: for Being is joined to every thing there; since (as we have said) it is by Being that any thing cometh thither: and consequently this stock of Being, maketh every graft that is inoculated into it, Be what of its own nature it is; for Being joined to an other notion, doth not change that notion, but maketh it be what it was before; sithence if it should be changed, Being were not added to it: as for example, add Being to the notion of knife, and it maketh a knife, or that notion, to Be a knife: and if after the addition, it doth not remain a knife, it was not Being, that was added to a knife.  
Out of the later of the singularities proper to man, 
10 A multitude of things may be united in man's vnderstanding without being mingled or comfounded together.  it followeth, that multitude of things may be united in him, without suffering any confusion among themselves; but every one of them, will remain with its proprieties, and distinct limitations: for so of necessity it must be, when that which uniteth them to him, is the comparing of them to something besides themselves: which work could not be performed, unless what is to be compared, do retain exactly its own nature, whereby the comparison may be made: no more than one can weigh two quantities one against an other, unless he keep asunder what is in each scale, and keep all other weights from mingling with them: and accordingly we see, that we can not compare black to white, or a horse to an ox, unless we take together, the properties by which black differeth from white, or an ox from a horse: and consequently, they must remain unmingled and without confusion, precisely what in themselves they are, and be different in the sight of the comparer.  
But indeed, if we look well into the matter, we shall find, that setting a side the notion of Existence or of Being, all our other notions are nothing else, but comparisons and respects: and that by the mediation of respects, the natures of all things are in us: and that by the varying of them, we multiply our notions: which in their first division, that reduceth their several kinds into general heads, do increase into the ten famous tribes, that Logicians call Predicaments: and they do comprehend under them, all the particular notions that man hath, or can have, according to the course of knowledge in this life. Of which Predicaments the seven last are so manifestly respective, that all men acknowledge them to be so. Substance we have already showed to have a respect unto Being▪ Quantity we proved in the first Chapter of the former Treatise of the nature and of the operation of Bodies, to consist in a respect unto parts. Quality is divided into four branches: whereof Power is clearly a respect to that over which it hath power, or from which it may suffer. Habit is a respect to the substance wherein it is; as being the property by which it is well or ill, conveniently or inconueniently affected, in regard of its own nature; as you may observe in health, or sickness, or the like. The passable Qualities are those which we have explicated, in discoursing of the Elements and of Mixtes; and whose natures we have there showed do consist in respects of acting or of suffering. Figure or shape (which is the last branch of the division of the Predicament of Quality) is nothing else, but a certain disposition of one part of a body to an other. And so you see, how all the ten Predicaments do consist purely in diversity of Respects: and by consequence, all our conceits and notions (excepting that of Being, which is the stock, upon which all the rest are grafted) are nothing else, but various respects; since all of them whatsoever, are comprised under those general heads. Concerning which, we shall not need to dilate ourselves any further; seeing they are to be found in Aristotle, and in his Commentators, largely discoursed of.  

11 Of abstracted and concrete terms.  In the next place, let us observe, how our understanding behaveth itself, in considering and in apprehending these respects. We have already declared, that the variety of our notions, doth arise out of the respects which divers things have to one an other: hence will follow, that of the same thing, we may have various notions: for comparing it to different things, we shall meet with different respects between them; and consequently, we shall consider the same thing, under different notions: as when we consider an apple, under the notions of greenness, of sweetness, of roundness, of mellownesse &c: in such sort, as we have amply declared in the first Treatise, and therefore need not here enlarge ourselves any further upon this particular. Now these notions are so absolutely severed one from an other, and every one of them hath such a completeness within itself, that we may use any one of them, without meddling at all with any of the others. And this we do two several ways: the one, when our manner of apprehension determineth us to one precise notion, which is so summed up within itself, as it not only abstracteth from all other notions, but also quite excludeth them, and admitteth no society with them. The other way is, when we consider a thing under a determinate notion, yet we do it in such a manner, that although we abstract from all other notions, nevertheless we do so, rather by neglecting then by excluding them: and even in the manner of our expression of it, we insinuate that there are other notions (without specifying what) belonging unto it.  
Of the first kind of notions, are whiteness, weight, heat, and such like, (whose names are called abstracted terms) which although they arise out of our comparing of the things that are white, heavy, hot, &c: to our fantasy, or to other things; yet these notions are so precise, and shut up within themselves, that they absolutely exclude all others, (as of long, short, square, rough, sharp, or whatsoever else) which may in the things accompany the whiteness, weight, heat, &c, that our consideration is then busied only withal Of the second kind of abstracted notions, are white, heavy, hot &c (whose names, expressing them, are called concrete terms:) which although they cause in us no other apprehensions then of whiteness, of weight, of heat &c: yet they are not so rigorously paled in, as the others are, from admitting society with any besides; but do imply tacitly, that the thing which is white, heavy, hot &c: hath besides that, some other consideration belonging unto it (whatsoever it be) which is not expressed.  
Now in this later abstraction, it happeneth sometimes, that the notion expressed, hath but an accidental connexion with the other notions, that are in the thing unexpressed: as for example; it is merely accidental to the white wall as it is white, to be high or low, of stone, of plaster, or the like. But otherwhiles, the expressed notion is so essential to the concealed ones, that they can not be without it: as when we apprehend a cloven foot; although this apprehension do abstract from all other notions besides clovenfootednesse (if so I may say) yet, (as above we have declared) it is in such a manner, that it implieth other considerations, not yet expressed, in that cloven foot: among which, some may be of that nature, that they can not have a Being without presupposing clovenfootednesse; but others may be merely accidental to that notion: as (for instance sake) let one be, that the foot is cloven into three parts; and let an other be, that it is black or hairy; of these, this later notion of black or hairy, is of the first kind of abstractions, which we said had but an accidental connexion with that which comprehended them without expressing them: for other things besides the cloven foot, may be black or hairy; in such sort as height or lowness, to be of stone or of plaster, may belong unto other structures besides the white wall: but to be cloven footed into three parts, doth so necessarily depend of being cloven footed in general, (which implieth this particular) and so directly includeth it, as it can not subsist without clovenfootednesse: for though we may conceive a foot to be cloven, without determining in our apprehension, into how many toes it is cloven; yet we can not conceive it to have three, four, or five toes, without apprehending it to be cloven: so that in such like apprehensions, the notion which is expressed, is so essential to the notion that is concealed and added unto it, as the concealed one can not be conceived without the expressed one; and whensoever it is mentioned, the other is necessarily also brought in, and affirmed with it.  
Now, 
12 Of universal notions.  some of these later kinds of notions, (in which what is expressed is essential to what is concealed) may be of such a nature, as to be capable of receiving the addition of sundry other notions, so repugnant unto one an other, that they can not agree together in one subject; and yet that general notion, without determining any of the others, be indifferent to the contrary additions that include it, and belong as much to any one, as to any other of them: and so consequently, whatsoever may be affirmed, and is true, of the primary notion, may as well be affirmed, and is as true, of the several particulars, arising out of the repugnant additions. Such a notion, Logicians term an Universal one: that is, one that reacheth indifferently and equally to all the particulars comprised under it. As for example: to the notion of a living creature, may be added the notions of Reasonable and unreasonable: which first notion, when it is barely expressed, it determineth no one of the two secondary notions, more than it doth the other▪ but is alike indifferent to either; and whatsoever belongeth to a living creature, belongeth entirely both to a man and to a beast: yet no one thing, can be both reasonable and unreasonable. In like manner when I say, a man is a discursive creature; under this word man, there lieth a notion, by which may be signified any particular man, as Thomas, john, William, &c: though of itself, it determine no one man whatsoever: and consequently, every one of these particular men, must be allowed to be a discursive creature, because the being such, belongeth unto the notion of man, and that notion unto all the particulars of Thomas, john, William, &c: and yet no particular man can be both Thomas and john, or john and William, etc.  
In this kind of notion, we may observe yet one propriety more: which is, that of itself, and in its common term, it doth not cause one's thought to range unto several objects; nor doth it imply that there are many particulars comprised under it: yet if there be never so many, that conceit will fit them every one; and if there be but one, still it will be no less accommodated to that one. As for example: He that maketh a right apprehension of a sun, doth not by that conception determine, whether there be many suns or but one: and if every one of the stars (which we call fixed) be suns to other earth's, it fitteth them all; and if there be no other sun, then that which shineth to us, it is satisfied and taken up with that: so likewise; before the production of Eve, the notion of a man was as fully taken up by Adam alone, as it is now by his numerous progeny that filleth the world: nor doth our understanding, when that term is pronounced, consider (out of the force of the term) whether there be many men, or only one.  

13 Of apprehending a multitude under o●e notion.  An other propriety in man's apprehension not much unlike to this, is, that he is able to comprise a multitude in one indivisible notion; and yet, that notion express the multiplicity of what it containeth: as we see in numbers, where the indivisible conception of ten, a hundred, a thousand, &c, doth plainly express the subject to be many; and yet that notion of the number bindeth them up (as I may say) into one bundle, that in itself admitteth no division, nor will permit that the least part be taken from it▪ for if it be, the whole bundle is destroyed and vanisheth: as when I take ten, if one be diminished from it, it is no longer ten, but nine. It fareth in like manner with the conceptions we frame of All, and Every one, as it doth with numbers; for if but one be deficient, it is but a part, and not all, or every one: so that these notions do indivisibily terminate a multitude. And like to this notion, is the name or term whole, in respect of things which as yet have not division, but are capable of being divided; for it is so rigorous, that if the least atom or thought be wanting, it is no longer the whole, but only a part.  
And this is as much as at present appeareth unto me needful to be said, concerning single apprehensions: unless I be permitted to add for a conclusion, 
14 The power of the understanding reacheth as far as the extent of being.  this little note (which peradventure might have been more properly sert down in an other place where we discoursed of Being, but that it occurred not then to me) that apprehension being rooted in the nature of Being, the power of it spreadeth itself as far as the extent of Being: and consequently reacheth to all things whatsoever; for whatsoever is a thing, hath Being; and that unto which Being doth not reach, is nothing. Nay, it is not limited there, but graspeth even at nothing, and aimeth to make a notion of it, and planteth its generation, by multiplying itself by negations of whatsoever is. Hence we have the notions of deafness, of dumbness, of blindness, of lameness, of baldness, of death, of sin, and of all evils whatsoever, by the want of such goods, as are sensible unto us.   

THE SECOND CHAPTER. Of Thinking and Knowing.  
Having thus declared the nature of single apprehensions, 
1 How a judgement is made by the understanding.  the method we have prescribed ourselves, requireth that we examine in the next place, what effect the joining of them together may have; for from thence do spring Enunciations or judgements; which are in the next rank after simple apprehensions, and are the materials whereof discourses are immediately framed: as when of the two apprehensions of knife and of sharp, we make this enunciation, the knife is sharp. In this enquiry the first thing that occurreth unto us, is to consider, in what manner two differing simple apprehensions, do become joined to one an other: and we shall find, that they are not tied together like several distinct things in one bundle, or like stones in a heap, where all that are comprised under one multitude, are yet circumscribed within their own limits, and thereby are wholly distinguished from each other; but that they are as it were grafted upon one stock; which being common to both, giveth the same life to both; and so becoming one with each of them, maketh them be one and the same thing between themselves. And this is the notion of Being or Existence, in the subject we speak of: which (as we have already showed) is the Basis and foundation of all other apprehensions; and by being common and indifferent to all, is the fittest glue to unite those that are capable of such conjunction: and accordingly we see, that most of our speech runneth upon this strain, that this is that, or doth that (which is as much to say as is doing that) that Socrates is a man, or that Socrates runneth, (which signifieth, is running) and the like: and since our speech proceedeth from the conceptions of our mind; it is clear, that as the words which express Being or Existence, do join together the other words that we use, (or at least, the greatest part of them) so likewise in our mind the apprehension of Being, is the glue that joineth our apprehensions corresponding to our words.  

2 That two or more apprehensions are identifyed in the soul by uniting them in the stock of being.  All which will appear to be said with great reason, if we reflect upon it; for when divers apprehensions may be thus joined together, it is indeed, that one and the same thing affecting us several ways and under different considerations; those different impressions do beget different apprehensions in us: and so, till we examine the matter, every one of them seemeth to be a different thing: but when we trace these streams up to the fountain head, we discern that all of them do belong to one and the same thing; and that by being in that thing, they are among themselves the very same thing, however they affect us variously; and therefore may truly be said to be one, as indeed they are: and consequently, nothing is more fit to join together in our mind those different apprehensions, than the apprehension of Being; which maketh us apprehend as one thing, those notions which really, and in the thing itself, are but one, as we have often touched, both in the former Treatise, and lately in this: for this is the way to join things in the mind intelligently, and according to the proper nature of the mind; which receiving impressions from things existent, aught to consider those impressions as they flow from the very things, and not as they are in the mind itself; and by mediation of those impressions, must take a survey of the things themselves; and not stay at the intellectual impressions they make in her: and consequently, must apprehend those things to be one in themselves, (although in us they be not so) according to the course of our original and legitimate apprehensions of things; which is, as they are existent; that is, as they are in their own nature, and in themselves; and not according to the discourses and secondary apprehensions we make of the images we find of them in our mind. And thus things are rightly joined by apprehension; without caution in which particular, we shall run into great errors in our discourse: for if we be not very careful herein, we are apt to mistake the use of the impressions we receive from things, and to ground our judgements concerning them, according to what we find of them in our mind, and not according to what they are in themselves: which two several considerations, have quite different faces; although (it is true) those impressions are made by the things, and are the only means by which we may rightly judge of them: provided, that we consider them as they are in the things, and not as they are in us.  
Now this conjunction of apprehensions, by the mediation and the glue of Being, is the most natural and fitting, not only in regard of the things, but even in regard of us: for (as we have already showed) it is of all others the most common and universal, the most simple or uncomposed, and the most natural and deepest rooted in man: out of all which, it is evident, that this union of apprehensions by the means of Being, is in truth an Identification of them: for Unity being a negation of multiplicity, it followeth, that what is one, is the same: and this identification is truly and naturally expressed by saying, that the one is the other.  
But insisting a little further upon this consideration, 
3 How the notions of a substantive and an adjective, are united in the soul, by the common stock of being.  how different apprehensions become joined and united together, by the notion of Being; we may observe that this happeneth, not only to two single ones, but to more; according as more than two, may belong unto one thing: and it may so fall out, that more than one, be on either side the common ligament. Thus when we say, A Man is a discursive creature; or a Rational soul, is an immortal substance, the two apprehensions, of discursive, and of creature, are joined together in a third of Man, by the tye of one Being: and the two apprehensions of Immortal, and of Substance, are united to the two others of Rational and of Soul, likewise by the ligament of one single Being. Evident it is then, that the extremes are vni●ed by one Being: but how the two apprehensions that are ranked together on the same side of the ligament (as in our former examples, the apprehensions of discursive and of creature, of rational and of Soul, of Immortal and of substance) are between themselves joined to one an other, is not so easy to express. It is clear, that it is not done by mere conglobation; for we may observe, that they do belong, or are apprehended to belong, unto the same thing; and the very words that express them, do intimate so much, by one of them being an adjective; which showeth, they are not two things; for if they were, they would require two substantives to describe them: and consequently it followeth that one of them must needs appertain to the other: and so both of them make but one thing.  
And there is no doubt, but in the inward apprehension, there is a variety correspondent to the variety of words which express it; since all variety of words that is made by intention, resulteth out of some such variety of apprehensions. Therefore, since the words do import, that the things have a dependence the one of the other, we can not doubt, but that our apprehensions have so too: which will be conceived best, by looking into the act of our mind, when it frameth such variety of apprehensions belonging to one thing, correspondent to the variety in words of an adjective glued unto his substantive; and attending heedfully to what we mean, when we speak so. The Hebrews do express this union, or comprising of two different apprehensions under one notion, by putting in the genitive case, the word which expresseth one of them, (much like the rule in Lilies grammar, that when two substantives come together, if they belong to the same thing, the one is put in the genitive case.) As when in the scripture we meet with these words, the judge of unjustice, the expense of wickedness, the man of sin, or of death; which in our phrase of speaking, do signify an unjust judge, a wicked expense, and a sinful or dead man. In which it is evident, that as well the manner of understanding, as of speaking, taketh each pair of these notions to belong unto one thing; that is, to have both of them, one and the same Existence, although there intervene not the formal expression of their being one. Thus we see, how one Being serveth two different ways to join and unite several apprehensions: and if we will examine all the negotiations of our understanding, we shall hardly find any notions so far distant, but may be brought together, either by the one of these ways, or by the other.  

4 That a settled judgement becometh a part of our soul.  But this composition and joining of several apprehensions by the glue of Being, is not sufficient to make us deem a thing to be really such, as their union painteth in the mind, or as the words so tied together do express in speech. Well may it cause us to think of the thing; but to think, or to deem it such an one (which word of deeming, we shall be obliged henceforward to use frequently, because the word thinking is subject to equivocation) requireth the addition of something more, then barely this composition of apprehensions; which unless they be kept strait by some level, may as well swerve from the subject, as make a true picture of it. Here than we are to examine, what it is that maketh us think any thing to be such as we apprehend it: this we are sure of, that when we do so, our actions which proceed upon reason, and which have relation to that thing, are governed and steered in every circumstance, just as if the thing were truly so: as for example, if a man do really deem the weather to be cold, or that his body is distempered, he putteth on warmer clothes, or taketh physic; although peradventure he is mistaken in both: for his deeming them to be so, maketh him demean himself in such sort, as if really they were so. It is then evident, that by such thinking or deeming, the nature conceived, is made an active principle in us: unto which if we add, that all the knowledge we have of our soul, is no more, but that it is an active force in us, it seemeth, that a thing, by having apprehensions made of it in our mind, and by being really thought to be agreeable to such apprehensions, becometh (as it were) a part or affection of our soul, and one thing with it. And this peradventure is the cause, why an understanding man can not easily leave an opinion once deeply rooted in him; but doth wrestle and strive against all arguments that would force him from it, as if a part of his soul or understanding were to be torn from him: in such manner as a beast will cry and struggle to save his body, from having any of his limbs disjointed or pulled in pieces.  

5 How the Soul cometh to deem or settle a judgement.  But this observing the effect which followeth of our deeming a thing to be thus or so, is not sufficient to inform us, what it is that causeth that deeming. We must therefore take the matter a little higher, and look into its immediate principles: and there we shall find, that it is the knowing of what we say to be true, and the assurance, that the things are as we deem them, which quieteth our soul, and maketh it consent unto them, and proceed to action upon that consent. Now this knowledge, is the most eminent part of deeming; and of all our acquisitions, is the most inseparable from us: and indeed in rigour, it is absolutely inseparable by direct means; however peradventure by indirect means it may be separated.  
Let us then consider how we attain unto it, and how sometimes we fail in the purchase of it; and what degrees of assurance or of probability there are between it and error. To this intent, we may observe that the greatest assurance, and the most eminent knowledge we can have of any thing, is of such Propositions, as in the schools are called identical; as if one should say, john is john, or a man is a man: for the truth of these propositions is so evident and clear, as it is impossible any man should doubt of them, if he understand what he saith: and if we should meet with one that were not satisfied of the verity of them, we would not go about to prove them to him, but would only apply ourselves to make him reflect upon the words he speaketh, without using any further industry to gain his assent thereunto: which is a manifest sign, that in such propositions, the apprehending or understanding them, is the same thing as to know them and to consent unto them: or at the least, that they are so necessarily conjoined, as the one followeth immediately out of the other, without needing any other causes to promote this effect, more than that a man be disposed, and willing to see the truth: so as we may conclude, that to understand a proposition which openly carrieth its evidence with it, is to knew it. And by the same reason, although the evidence of a proposition, should not at the first sight be presently obvious unto us, yet with unfolding and explicating of it, we come at length to discern it; then likewise the apprehending of it, is the knowing of it.  
We must therefore inquire, what it is that causeth this evidence: and to that purpose, reflecting upon those instances we have given of identical propositions, we may in them observe, that evidence ariseth out of the plain Identification of the extremes that are affirmed of one an other; so that, in what proposition soever, the Identification of the extremes is plain, the truth of it is evident unto us, and our mind is satisfied and at quiet; as being assured that it knoweth it to be so as the words say it. Now all affirmative propositions do by the form of them import an Identification of their extremes, (for they all agree in saying This is that) yet they are not all alike in the evidence of their Identification: for in some it showeth itself plainly, without needing any further help to discover it; and those are without any more ado known of themselves, as such identical sayings, we even now gave for examples: others require a journey somewhat further about to show their Identification; which if it be not so hidden, but that it may in the end be discovered and brought to light, as soon as that is done, the knowledge settled by them in the soul, is certain and satisfactory as well as the other: but if it be so obscure, that we can not display the Identification of it, than our mind suspendeth his assent, and is unquiet about it, and doubteth of the truth of it: in some propositions, whiles he searcheth and enquireth after the Identification of their extremes; peradventure he discerneth, that it is impossible there should be any between them; and then on the other side, he is satisfied of the falsity of them: for if a proposition be affirmative, it must necessarily be a false one, if there be no Identification between the extremes of it.  
By this discourse, we have found two sorts of propositions, which beget knowledge in us. The one, where the Identification of the extremes, is of itself so manifest, that when they are but explicated, it needeth no further proof. The other, where though in truth they be Identified, yet the Identification appeareth not so clear, but that some discourse is required to satisfy the understanding therein. Of the first kind, are such propositions as do make one of the extremes the definition of the other whereof it is affirmed: as when we say, a man is a reasonable creature; which is so evident, if we understand what is meaned by a Man, and what by a reasonable creature, as it needeth no further proof to make us know it: and knowledge is begotten in us, not only by a perfect Identification of the extremes, but as well by an imperfect one: as when what is said of an other, is but part of its definition; for example, if one should say, a man is a creature, no body that knoweth him to be a rational creature, (which is his complete definition) could doubt of his being a creature; because that the being a creature, is partly identifyed to being a rational creature. In like manner, this obvious evidence of Identification, appeareth as well where a complete division of a thing is affirmed of the other extreme, as where that affirmation is made by the total or partial definition of it: as when we say, number is even or odd: an enuntiation is true or false, and the like: where, because what is said, compriseth the differences of the thing whereof it is said, it is plain that one of them must needs be that whereof we speak.  
Peradventure some may expect, that we should give identical propositions (among others) for examples of this plain evidence: but because they bring no acquisition of new knowledge unto the soul, (the doing of which, and the reflecting upon the manner, is the scope of this Chapter) I let them pass without any further mention, upon this occasion having produced them once before, only to show by an undeniable example, what it is that maketh our soul consent unto an enuntiation, and how knowledge is begotten in her, that we might afterwards apply the force of it to other propositions.  
Let us therefore proceed to the second sort of propositions, which require some discourse, to prove the Identification of their extremes. Now the scope of such discourse is, by comparing them unto some other third thing, to show their Identification between themselves; for it showeth, that each of them a part is identifyed with that new subject it bringeth in: and then our understanding is satisfied of their identity, and our soul is secure of that knowledge it thus acquireth, as well as it is of that which resulteth out of those propositions, which bear their evidence in their first aspect.  
This negotiation of the understanding to discover the truth of propositions, when it is somewhat hidden, (which we call discourse) as it is one of the chiefest and noblest actions of the soul, so doth it challenge a very heedful inspection into it: and therefore we will allow it a peculiar Chapter by itself, to explicate the nature and particularities of it. But this little we now have said concerning it, is sufficient for this place; where all we aim at is to prove (and I conceive we have done it very fully) that when Identity between two or more things, presenteth itself to our understanding, it maketh and forceth knowledge in our soul.  
Whence it is manifest, that the same power or soul, which in a single apprehension is possessed with the Entity or Unity of it, is that very power or soul, which applied to an Enunciation, knoweth or deemeth; since knowing is nothing else, but the apprehending of manifest Identity in the extremes of a proposition, or an effect immediately consequent out of it, in the soul that applieth itself to apprehend that Identity. Which apprehension is made, either by the force of the extremes, applied immediately to one an other, or else by the application of them to some other thing: which peradventure may require yet a further application unto new apprehensions, to make the Identity between the first extremes appear evidently.  
Now, 
6 How opinion is begotten in the understanding.  as when Identity truly appeareth, it maketh evidence to our understanding, and begetteth assured knowledge in our soul; so, when there is only an apparent Identity, but not a real one, it happeneth that the understanding is quieted without evidence; and our soul is fraught with a wrong or slight belief, instead of certain knowledge: as for example, it is for the most part true, that what wise men affirm, is so as they say; but because wise men are but men (and consequently not infaillible) it may happen that in some one thing, the wisest men that are may miss, though in most and generally speaking, they hit right. Now if any body in a particular occasion, should (without examining the matter) take this proposition rigorously and peremptorily, that what wise men affirm is true; and should there upon subsume with evidence, that wise men say such a particular thing, and should there upon proceed to believe it; in this case he may be deceived, because the first proposition is not verily, but only seemingly evident.  
And this is the manner how that kind of deeming, which is either opposed, or inferior to knowledge, is bred in us: to wit, when either through temerity, in such cases where we may, and it is just we should examine all particulars so carefully, that no equivocation or mistake in any part of them, be admitted to pass upon us for a truth, and yet we do not: or else, through the limitedness and imperfection of our nature, when the minutenesse and variety of petty circumstances in a business is such, as we can nor enter into an exact examination of all that belongeth to that matter, (for if we should exactly discuss every slight particular, we should never get through any thing of moment) we settle our understanding upon grounds, that are not sufficient to move and determine it. Now in some of these cases, (and particularly in the later) it may happen, that the understanding itself is aware, that it neither hath discovered, nor can discover evidence enough, to settle its assent with absolute assurance: and then it judgeth the belief it affordeth unto such a proposition, to be but probable; and instead of knowledge, hath but opinion concerning it. Which opinion appeareth to it more or less probable, according as the motives it relieth on, are stronger or weaker.  

7 How faith is begotten in the understanding.  There remaineth yet an other kind of deeming for us to speak of; which though it ever fail of evidence, yet sometimes it is better than opinion, for sometimes it bringeth certitude with it. This we call faith; and it is bred in this sort: when we meet with a man, who knoweth something which we do not, if withal we be persuaded that he doth not, nor will not tell a lie; we then believe what he saith of that thing to be true: now according to the persuasion we have of his knowledge and veracity, our belief is strong, or mingled with doubt: so that if we have absolute assurance and certainty, that he knoweth the truth and will not lie, than we may be assured, that the faith which we yield to what he saith, is certain as well as evident knowledge is certain, and admitteth no comparison with opinion, be it never so probable: but so it may happen, that we may be certainly assured that a man doth know the truth of what he speaketh of, and that he will not lie in reporting it to us: for seeing no man is wicked without a cause; and that to tell a lie in a serious matter, is a great wickedness; if once we come to be certain that he hath no cause, (as it may fall out we may) than it followeth, that we are assured of the thing which he reporteth to us.  
Yet still such faith falleth short of the evidence of knowledge in this regard, that its evidence sticketh one degree on this side the thing itself: and at the push, in such a case we see but with an others eyes; and consequently, if any opposition do arise against our thought thereabout, it is not the beams, and light of the thing itself, which strengthen us against such opposition, but the goodness of the party upon whom we rely.  

8 Why truth is the perfection of a reasonable soul: and why it is not found in simple apprehensions as well as in Enuntiations.  Before I go any further, I must needs remember one thing, that our Masters teach us: which is, that truth and falsehood are first found in sayings or Enuntiations; and that although single apprehensions are in our mind before these judgements, yet are they not true or false themselves, nor is the understanding so by them. To comprehend the reason of this maxim, let us consider what truth and falsehood are: surely truth is nothing else, but the confirmity of our understanding, with the things that make impression upon it: and consequently, falsehood is a disagreeing between our mind and those things: if the existence which the things have in us, be agreeable to the Existence they have in themselves; then our understanding is true; otherwise it is false. Now the natural perfection of our Soul or understanding, is to be fraught with the rest of the whole world, that is to have the knowledge of all things that are; the knowledge of their essences, of their natures, of their proprieties, of their operations, and of whatsoever else belongeth to them all in general, and to every one of them in particular: but our soul can not be stored or fraught with any thing, by other means then by her assent or deeming: whereupon it followeth, that she can not have her perfection, until her deeming or judgements be perfect; which is, that they be agreeable unto the things in the world: when they are so, then are they true. And this is the reason why truth is the aim and perfection of the soul. Now then, truth residing only in the assents and judgements of the soul, (which are the traffic whereby she enricheth herself with the rest of the world) and they being framed by her discerning an identity between two things; which she expresseth by affirming one of them of the other: it followeth, that nothing can be true or false, but where there is a composition of two extremes, made by the one's being affirmed of the other; which is done only in Enuntiations or judgements: whiles single apprehensions assent to nothing, and therefore settle no knowledge in the soul; and consequently are not capable of verity or falsity, but are like pictures made at fancy, some one of which may happen to be like some Person, but can not be said to be the picture of him, because it was not drawn from him: so these bare apprehensions, because there is not in the man union of the soul to the outward world, or to the Existence which actuateth its object, therefore they make not the soul to be the image of the things existent: but the judgement, which still taketh a thing existent, or as existent, in the subject of the proposition, draweth its picture from the thing itself: and therefore it maketh the soul to be well or ill painted, in respect of the thing that is true or false.  
And this is the reason, why in one sense doubtful propositions, which the understanding (not being yet resolved) maketh inquiringly to inform itself of the truth of them, can not be said to be true or false; for all that while, the soul yieldeth no assent unto them, either one way or other; yet in an other sense they may, which is, taking them as subjects that the understanding determineth unto itself to treat of: for there being two extremes in them, and the proposition consisting in this, whether these extremes be identifyed or no, it followeth, that since one part must of necessity be, such a proposition spoken at random, or written by chance without design, is of necessity either true or false; according as the extremes of it, are or are not one thing. 
9 What is a solid judgement, and what a slight one.   
There occurreth no more unto my consideration to be said in this place, concerning the assents and judgements of the mind: unless it be, to explicate in a word or two, the several qualities of them, which are found in several Persons; and to point at the reason why they are called by those names, which they are universally known by. To which purpose we may observe, that judgement or deeming, being a quieting of the mind, it followeth that the mind must needs be in disquiet and at unrest, before it cometh to judge: so that we may conclude, that judgement or thinking, is a good attained by a former motion. Now according to the quality of this motion, the judgement or assent, is qualifyed and denominated. We must therefore consider what belongeth to motion; which when we have done, we shall in judgements find something proportionable thereunto.  
We know there is a beginning and an ending in motion; and that there are parts by which it is drawn out in length: all which must be particularly considered, in our comparing of motions unto judgements. Now then, as he that would know precisely the nature of any motion, must not begin his survey of it, after it hath been some time in flux; nor must give over his observing it, before it have arrived unto its utmost period; but aught to carry his attention along from its first origine, and pass with it through all its parts, until it ceasing, give him leave to do so too (for otherwise, it may happen that the course of it be differing in those parts he hath not observed, from those that he hath, and accordingly, the picture he shall make of it by that imperfect s●n●tling, will prove an erroneous one;) so in like manner, when a man is to make a judgement of any matter in question, to give a good account of it, he must begin at the root, and follow successively all the branches it divideth itself into, and drive every one of them to their utmost extremity and period: and according as in judging he beheaveth himself well or ill, in the several circumstances that are proportionable to the beginning, ending, and parts of motion; so his judgement is qualifyed with the names of several virtues agreeing thereunto, or of their opposite defects.  
If he begin his considerations very low, and from the very bottom and root of the affair, which is from the first and all comprehending principles of the question, and proceed on orderly taking all before him; his judgement is accounted deep, profound, and solid: for he that casteth so far, as to leave behind him no part of the matter he is enquiring about, and then driveth his course steadily and smoothly forwardly, without any leaps over rugged passages, or interruptions, or loose breaches; must of necessity make a well grounded judgement; and such an one, as can not easily be overthrown, or he be easily removed from it.  
And this is indeed the full reason, of what a little above we only glanced at: namely, why understanding men are usually accounted obstinate in their tenets, and are hard to be removed from their opinions once settled in their minds: for when other men oppose them, they urge nothing (for the most part) against these judicious men's resolutions or beliefs, but what they have already throughly foreseen: but these on the other side, do see a great deal, that their opposers reach not unto; so that notwithstanding all such opposition, they continue still vnshaken in their judgements: for which, the others which see not as much as they, do think them obstinate, and not led by reason, because they follow not that short reason, beyond which themselves can not reach.  
The contrary vice to this, is called a slight judgement: and consisteth herein, that a man out of a few, and an insufficient number of circumstances, resolveth the whole case: which temerity and short sightedness of judgement, is significantly taxed in our English proverb, that a fool's bolt is soon shot. 
10 What is an acute judgement, and what a dull one.   
Thus much for the beginning of a judgement: the next consideration may be concerning the end of it; in regard whereof, if it reach to the utmost extent and period of what is considerable in a hard question proposed, it gaineth the title of sharp, or of subtle, and acute; for the hardnenesse of the matter that perplexeth one's judgement, consisteth in the involution of things, which looked upon in gross, do seem to have no distinction or opposition among themselves; and yet are in truth of very different and contrary natures. Now a good judgement divideth and cutteth through them, and allotteth unto every particular thing its proper limits and bounds: wherefore, as in corporeal substances, the virtue of dividing is sharpness and edge, by translation from thence, such a judgement as pierceth neatly and smartly between contradictories that lie close together, is called sharp and acute. In like manner, subtlety is a virtue, whereby a liquor or other body searcheth every little hole and part of what it worketh upon, till it get through it; and from thence, it is used in judgements to signify the same: whose opposite vice is called dullenesse.  
In the last place we are to examine, 
11 In what consisteth quickness and Clearness of judgement: and there oposite vices.  what proportion a judgement holdeth with the parts of motion: in these, two things are to be considered, namely the quantity or multitude of those parts, and the order of them. As for the quantity in a motion, it belongeth either to long or short, or to quick and slow: now, where the beginning and ending are already known and determined, and consequently where the length is determined, and dependeth not at all of the judge to alter it, (for he must take it as the matter giveth it) there a judgement can acquire no denomination of perfection or deficiency, from length or from shortness; for they belong originally to the matter of the judgement; and the judgement must accordingly fit itself to that; and therefore is liable neither to commendations nor to reproach, for being long or short: it remaineth then, that the virtue is judging answerable to the quantity of motion, must consist in quickness and celerity; and the contrary vice, in slowness and heaviness.  
As for order in the several parts of motion, we know that if they be well ordered, they are distinct and easily discernible. Which virtue, in our subject, is called clearness of judgement; as the contrary vice is confusion.   

THE THIRD CHAPTER. Of Discoursing.  

1 How discourse smade.  IN the last Chapter we have showed, how two apprehensions joined together do make a judgement: now in this our first employment will be, to show how three of these thoughts or judgements, well chosen and duly ordered, do compose the first and most simple of perfect discourses; which Logicians call a syllogism: whose end and effect is to gain the knowledge of something, before hidden and unknown. The means whereby this is compassed, is thus. By the two first judgements, we join the extremes of the proposition we desire to know, unto some third thing; and then, by seeing that they both are one third thing, and that one can be but one, we come to discern, that truly one of them is the other; which before we saw not: so that, the identity which first made an identical proposition be known and agreed unto, and afterwards caused the like assent to be yielded unto those maxims, whose identification presently showed itself, now by a little circuit and bringing in of a third term, maketh the two first (whose identification was hidden and obscure, whiles we looked upon the terms themselves) appear to be in very truth but one thing.  

2 Of the figures and moods of Syllogisms.  The various mingling and disposing of these three terms in the two first propositions, begetteth a variety in the syllogisms that are composed of them: and it consisteth in this, that the assumed term unto which the other two are interchangeably joined, is either said of them, or they are said of it: and from hence spring three different kinds of syllogisms; for either the assumed or middle term, is said of both the other two; or both they are said of it; or it is said of one of them, and the other is said of it: neither is there any deeper mystery than this, in the three figures, our great Clerks talk so much of: which being brought into rules, to help our memory in the ready use of this transposition of the terms; if we spin our thoughts upon them into over small thriddes, and thereof weave too intricate webs (mean while not reflecting upon the solid ground within ourselves, where on these rules are built, not considering the true end why;) we may spend our time in trivial and useless subtleties: and at length, confound and misapply the right use of our natural discourse, with a multitude of precepts drawn from artificial logic.  
But to return to our matter in hand; under this primary threefold variety, is an other of greater extent, growing out of the divers composition of the three terms, as they are qualifyed by affirmation or negation, and by universality or particularity: for that unity, which the two terms, whose identification is enquired after, must have by being joined with the third, becometh much varied by such divers application: and from hence shooteth up that multitude of kinds of syllogisms, which our Logicians call moods. All which I have thus particularly expressed, to the end we may observe how this great variety hangeth upon the sole string of identity.  
Now these Syllogisms, 
3 That the life of man as man, doth consist in discourse, and of the vast extent of it.  being as it were interlaced and woven one within an other, (so that many of them do make a long chain, whereof each of them is a link) do breed, or rather are all the variety of man's life: they are the steps by which we walk in all our conversations and in all our businesses: man as he is man, doth nothing else but weave such chains: whatsoever he doth, swerving from this work, he doth as deficient from the nature of man: and if he do aught beyond this, by breaking out into divers sorts of exterior actions, he findeth nevertheless in this linked sequel of simple discourses, the art, the cause, the rule, the bounds, and the model of it.  
Let us take a summary view of the vast extent of it, and in what an immense Ocean one may securely sail, by that never varying compass, when the needle is rightly touched, and fitted to a well moulded box; making still new discoveries of regions, far out of the sight and belief of them, who stand upon the hither shore. Humane operations are comprised under the two general heads of knowledge and of action: if we look but in gross, upon what an infinity of divisions these branch themselves into, we shall become giddy, our brains will turn, our eyes will grow weary and dim, with aiming only at a sudden and roving measure of the most conspicuous among them, in the way of knowledge. We see what mighty works men have extended their labours unto; not only by wild discourses, of which huge volumes are composed, but even in the rigorous method of Geometry, Arithmetic, and Algebra; in which, an Euclid, an Apollonius, an Archimedes, a Diophantus, and their followers, have reached such admirable heights, and have wound up such vast bottoms, sometimes showing by effects, that the thing proposed must needs be as they have set down, and can not possibly be any otherwise; otherwhiles, appaying the understanding (which is never truly at rest, till it hath found the causes of the effects it seeth) by exposing how it cometh to be: so that the reader calling to mind, how such a thing was taught him before, and now finding an other unexpectedly convinced upon him, easily seeth that these two put together, do make and force that third to be, whereof he was before in admiration how it could be effected: which two ways of discourse, are ordinarily known by the names of Demonstrations; the one called a Priori, the other a Posteriori.  
Now if we look into the extent of the deductions out of these, we shall find no end. In the heavens, we may perceive Astronomy measuring whatsoever we can imagine; and ordering those glorious lights, which our Creator hath hanged out for us; and showing them their ways, and pricking out their paths, and prescribing them (for as many ages as he pleaseth before hand) the various motions they may not swerve from in the least circumstance. Nor want there sublime souls, that tell us what mettle they are made of, what figures they have, upon what pillars they are fixed, and upon what gimals they move and performs their various periodes: 
Dialo: de mundo.  witness that excellent and admirable work, I have so often mentioned in my former Treatise. If we look upon the earth, we shall meet with those, that will tell us how thick it is, and how much room it taketh up: they will show us how men and beasts are hanged unto it by the heels; how the water and air do cover it; what force and power fire hath upon them all; what working is in the depths of it; and of what composition the main body of it is framed: where neither our eyes can reach, nor any of our senses can send its messengers to gather and bring back any relations of it. Yet are not our Masters contented with all this: the whole world of bodies is not enough to satisfy them: the knowledge of all corporeal things, and of this vast machine of heaven and earth, with all that they enclose, can not quench the unlimited thirst of a noble mind, once set on fire with the beauty and love of truth. 
Aestuat infoelix, angusto limit mundi,  
Vt Gyarae clausus scopulis, paruâque seripho.  But such heroic spirits, cast their subtle nets into an other world, after the winged inhabitans of the heavens; and find means to bring them also into account, and to serve them (how imperceptible soever they be to the senses) as dainties at the soul's table. They inquire after a maker of the world we see, and are ourselves a main part of; and having found him, they conclude him (o●t of the force of contradiction) to be eternal, infinite, omnipotent, omniscient, immutable, and a thousand other admirable qualities they determine of him. They search after his tools and instruments, wherewith he built this vast and admirable palace, and seek to grow acquainted with the officers and stewards, that under him govern this orderly and numerous family. They find them to be invisible creatures, exalted above us more than we can estimate, yet infinitely further short of their and our maker, than we are of them. If this do occasion them, to cast their thoughts upon man himself, they find a nature in him (it is true) much inferior to these admirable Intelligences, yet such an one, as they hope may one day arrive unto the likeness of them: and that even at the present, is of so noble a mould, as nothing is too big for it to fathom, nor any thing too small for it to discern.  
Thus we see knowledge hath no limits; nothing escapeth the toils of science; all that ever was, that is, or can ever be, is by them circled in: their extent is so vast, that our very thoughts and ambitions are too weak and too poor to hope for, or to aim at what by them may be compassed. And if any man, that is not enured to raise his thoughts above the pitch of the outward objects he converseth daily with, should suspect that what I have now said, is rather like the longing dreams of passionate lovers, whose desires feed them with impossibilities, then that it is any real truth; or should imagine that it is but a poetike Idea of science, that never was or will be in act: or if any other, that hath his discoursing faculty vitiated and perverted, by having been imbued in the schools with unsound and umbratile principles, should persuade himself, that howsoever the pretenders unto learning and science, may talk loud of all things, and make a noise with scholastike terms, and persuade their ignorant hearers that they speak and unfold deep mysteries, yet in very truth, nothing at all can be known: I shall beseech them both, to suspend their conjectures or beliefs herein, and to reserve their censure of me, whether or no I have strained too far, until the learned author of the Dialogues of the world, have enriched it with the work he hath composed of Metaphysikes: in which, going orderly and rigorously by continued propositions, in such sort as Mathematicians demonstrate their undertakinges, he hath left no scope for wrangling brains to make the least cavil against his doctrine: and casting his sharp sighted thoughts over the whole extent of nature, and driving them up to the Almighty Author of it, he hath left nothing out of the verge of those rules, and all comprehending principles he giveth of true science. And then I doubt not, but they will thoroughly absolve me from having used my amplification, in aiming at the reach of this allgrasping power. For my part, the best expression that I am able to make of this admirable piece, I must borrow from witty Galileus, when he speaketh of Archimedes his long miss book of glasses; and profess, that having some of the Elements or books of it entrusted in my hands by the Author, I read them over with extreme amazement, as well as delight, for the wonderful subtlety, and solidenesse of them.  
Thus much for knowledge. 
4 Of humane actions, and of those that concern ourselves.  Now let us cast an eye upon humane actions. All that we do (if we do it as we should do, and like men) is governed and steired by two sorts of qualities: the one of which, we call Arts: the other Prudences. An art, is a collection of general rules, comprehending some one subject, upon which we often work. The matters we work upon (out of which the particular subjects of arts do spring) are of three kinds: ourselves, our neighbours, an such dumb or in sensible things, as compose the rest of the world.  
Our actions upon ourselves, are the highest and the noblest of all the rest, and those by which we live and work as men: or to express myself better, they are those by which we perfect that part of us, which maketh us men, and by which we direct and level all we do, according to the rule of reason; not suffering our actions to swerve from what she dictateth unto us. This is done, by multiplying and heightening the thoughts of those things, which maintain us in reason; whether the motives be moral, as the examples of worthy persons, and the precepts and persuasions of wise men, and the like; or whether they be natural, as the consideration of the sweet and contented life, which virtue giveth ve here, by good conversation, honour, profit, quiet, pleasure, and what else soever groweth out of so excellent a root: as also, of the beatitude and happy state it bringeth us to in the next; and of the contrary effects which spring from vice. Again, by observing the motives and ways of our passions and animal desires, we learn how to prevent them; how to terrify them; and how to wear them gently away by little and little, through sometimes giving them diversions, through otherwhiles restraining them with moderation, and through oftentimes cutting of the occasions, and abridging them of their natural increasings. All these things are brought into art and rule; whose lessons, were men but as careful and industrious to study, as they are to become Masters in vain and trivial things, they would enjoy happy lives.  

5 Of humane actions as they concern our neighbours.  In the next place, we are to consider the actions whereby we work upon our neighbours. They are chiefly governement and negotiation: both which are of one kind; and have but this difference, that the one is done in common, the other is performed in particular. The means by which we command, are rewards and punishments; which who hath in his hands, may assuredly by wise using them, bring to pass whatsoever he hath a mind unto.  
Upon occasion of mentioning these two powerful motives, which have so main an influence in men's actions, we may note by the way, that many of them, and that work most forcibly upon men's minds, are things whose subsistence we know not where to find; as honour, praise, glory, command, singularity, eminency, shame, infamy, subjection, reproach, and the like: unto any of which, none of our senses can reach; and yet they govern man's life, in a manner wholly and perfectly.  
In negotiation, we propose to single men their own interests and profits; not such as the proposer can, or will effect; but such as are likely to arise out of the action we endeavour to draw him unto with whom we treat. In both these, the usual labour is, to make our neighbours willing to leave some present good, in hope of a greater to come; or to be content to undergo some present harm, for fear of a greater to ensue. The general instrument which they use, is discoursing, whose virtue consisteth partly in our own mind, and partly in delivering our mind to others: for first we must know what we should say, and next in what manner we should say it.  

6 Of Logic.  The art which directeth our own mind, and teacheth us what to say, is Logic: whose parts are two; according as the affairs falling into discourse, are likewise of a twofold nature: the one instructeth us how to manage and order our reason, when it dealeth with such subjects as we may attain to certainty in. And here the rules of Demonstration take place; teaching us to define, to divide, and to conclude. The other instructeth us how to behave ourselves, when we meet with such subjects, as a good and probable guess is the farthest we can reach unto towards the knowledge of them: and for these, the Topical part of Logic serveth; the which, taking a view of all the accidents belonging to any thing propounded, showeth how to draw probabilities from every one of them.  
Our discoursing to others, 
7 Of Grammar.  is either to open our minds barely unto them; or to persuade them of somewhat ourselves believe; or to win them to somewhat we would have them do. For the bare delivery of our minds to others, we have Grammar; the scope of which art, consisteth first, in teaching us to deliver our conceptions plainly and clearly, (which is the main intent of speaking) next, in making, our discourse be succinct and brief, (which is the measure of our speaking, both for ourselves and others;) and last, in sorting our words, so as what we say, may be accompanied with sweetness; both in common, in regard of the ear, by avoiding such harsh sounds as may offend it; and in particular, in regard of the custom of the language wherein we speak, and of the persons to whom we speak.  
The art whereby we may persuade others, 
8 Of Rhetoric.  and win them to assent unto what we would have them, is Rhetoric. Her rules instruct us how to dispose and order with best advantage, in regard of the Auditor's disposition, both the reasons which Logic affordeth us, and the words which Grammar storeth us with: as also, how to give life and motion to what we say, by our action and gesture; that so we may persuade our Auditory, such passions reign in us, as we seek to stir up in them: for as we may observe, that one who yawneth, maketh an other likewise yawn; and as our seeing others laugh, provoketh laughing also in us (the reasons whereof we have touched in the former Treatise;) after the same manner, what passion soever we exhibit in ourselves, the same stealeth insensibly upon those we speak unto; whiles their mind attending to the words they hear, is not a ware of the subtle spirits motions, that by a kind of contagion rise and swell in their hearts: according to which natural inclination in all men, the Master of Poets and excellent observer of men's humours said passing well: 
Si vis me flere, dolendum est  
Primùm ipsi tibi.  Hence grow those increases by metaphors, hyperboles, and other tropes and figures: hence those feruors by interrogations, exclamations, apostrophes, and the like; which when they are fitly placed, they carry the Auditor even against his will.  

9 Of Poetry.  Poetry, is not a governor of our Actions, but by advantageous expressing some eminent ones, it becometh an useful director to us; and therefore challengeth a place here. The design of it is, by representing humane actions in a more august and admirable hue, them in themselves they usually have: to frame specious Ideas, in which the people may see, what is well done, what amiss, what should be done, and what by error is wont to be done: and to imprint in men's minds a deep conceit of the goods and evils, that follow their virtuous or vicious comportement in their lives.  
If those who assume the title of Poets, did aim at this end, and would hold themselves strictly to it, they would prove as profitable instruments as any the commonwealth had: for the delightfullnesse and blithenesse of their compositions, inviteth most men to be frequently conversant with them; (either in songs, or upon the stage, or in other Poems) whiles the sober aspect and severity of bare precepts, deturneth many from lending a pleased ear to their wholesome doctrine; and what men swallow with delight, is converteth into nourishment: so that, if their drift were to settle in men's minds a due valuation of virtue, and a detestation of vice, no art would do it more universally, nor more effectually: and by it, men's hearts would be set on fire to the pursuit of the one, and be shrunk up with dislike and horror against the other. But unto such a Poet as would aim at those noble effects, no knowledge of Morality, nor of the nature and course of humane actions and accidents must be wanting: he must be well versed in History; he must be acquainted with the progress of nature, in what she bringeth to pass; he must be deficient in no part of Logic, Rhetoric, or Grammar: in a word, he must be consummate in all arts and sciencies, if he will be excellent in his way.  

10 Of the Power of speaking.  But whiles we thus entertain ourselves with those arts, which serve us in discoursing with others, it were a great oversight to forget that faculty, which is the basis and ground work of all those: and that is, the power of speech, which nature hath bestowed upon us. It consisteth in two actions: the one outward, the other inward: the outward, is the giving of various sounds to our breath, as it passeth through our mouth, by divers conjunctions of our tongue, teeth, and lips, to themselves, or to divers parts of our mouth, or by their separations from them: in which, we see that birds are able to imitate us, and I am persuaded, the like might be effected by insensible creatures, if a dexterous man would employ his time, in contriving and making an instrument to express those different sounds; which, not having more than seven substantial differences besides the vowels (as some who have carefully noted them, do affirm) it would peradventure be no hard matter to compose such an engine.  
The inward action of locution, is the framing of convenient answers to what is asked; of fit replies to what is said; and in a word, to speak appositely, and to the purpose; whereunto, neither beast nor dead instrument can be brought, unless the artificier be able to endue it with understanding.  
All other arts, 
11 Of arts that concern dumb and insensible creatutes▪  instruct us how to work orderly upon beasts and insensible bodies: by some of them, we cultivate living creatures; as when husband men nourish sheep, oxen, foul, and the like, for slaughter: by others, we discipline them, as when we teach horses, dogs, apes, hawks, parrots, and some kind of fishes, to hunt, to play, and in a word, to do somewhat either for our profit, or for our pleasure: and again, by others we use their natures to our ends; as when we lay baits to catch them, when we set eggs under hens, to have the chickens, and the like: by other arts, we work as powerfully upon insensible creatures; among which, by knowing the natures of divers trees, herbs, minerals, &c: we are able to bring any of them to what use soever we find most expedient for our service: from hence grow all those arts and trades, in which we see men daily spend their whole lives; so as it is needless to insist upon the particulars of them, since towns and the cities are composed of the several tribes of persons that profess them and live by them.  
But we must not leave this subject, without noting how admirably man's wit turneth itself to so different sorts, and to such an infinite variety of things. For what man is there, (if he be a man) but might have become Master in any of these so differing trades, in case h● had applied himself as constantly to that, as he hath done to some other he is perfect in? Again, let us consider how it happeneth often, that he doth not the same thing twice the same way, but according to his own, or an other man's fancy, changeth his work at will, now doing it after one fashion, now after an other; as having no law or determination from nature, but being wholly left to his own direction.  
There still remaineth one art, 
12 Of Arithmetic.  not yet spoken of; which knoweth not where to challenge a place, whether among the moderatours of our own actions, or among those whereby we govern things: and that is Arithmetic: which seemeth to belong unto things, and yet it meddleth not with them: and again, it seemeth to be a main director of our internal actions, and yet belongeth neither to Morals, nor to Logic. Wheresoever its due be to place it, I am sure it is not to be forgotten; seeing it is so principal an one, as our life can hardly consist without it. It worketh upon notions that are no where; for every thing that is in the world, is but one; and to be, or to make a number, can not happen without an understanding: the affections likewise of them, are as the subject, all invisible; as to be even or odd, to be cubes, squares, roots, &c: and yet how great the power and extent of this art is, none can rightly understand or believe, but he that hath the knowledge of it, or hath seen the virtue and efficacity of it.  
All these arts, 
13 Of Prudence.  consist in common rules, which require the second of those qualities, whereby we said humane actions are governed, to apply them to their particular matter: and that is Prudence; which we may define to be, a quality or power, by whose assistance we apply unto the matter we are to work upon, such instruments, as in our present judgement appear fittest to bring it to that pass, which serveth best for our intentions, when by our senses, or by other guesses, we know the particular dispositions of the matter, and of the instruments wherewith we are to change it. Now howbeit this occurreth generally in all arts, yet its special place and necessity, is in governing and moderating our own or other men's Moral actions; and accordingly, its name is especially addicted thereunto: and that man is said to be prudent or discreet, who governeth himself and others well.  
This quality of Moral Prudence in general, is divided into three particular ones: the first of which, belongeth to a governor in a state or commonwealth: the next may be assigned to him that is skilful in the laws: and the third concerneth the managing and conduct of military actions. The reason of this long received distribution peradventure is, because in these occurrences, our passion swayeth us generally more than in any others: and the operation and effect of Prudence, (whose province is to curb and moderate our passions by reason) is greatest, and appeareth most in those subjects, where passion reigneth usually with greatest impetuosity.  

14 Observations upon what hath been said in this Chapter.  Thus have we run over the main parts of discourse, and the general heads of man's action as man: which peradventure may through their numerousness, appear to be as it were but loosely scattered from our pen; (as happeneth unto all materials, that must serve for after buildings; and that till they be employed, require no more but sorting, and laying together in several heaps, to the end they may be ready for use:) and therefore before we go any further, it will not be amiss to make reflections upon what we have said; and to draw it nearer our intended scope; and to square out and give some figure and polishing to these stones, here where we dig them out of the quarry, whereby they may hereafter with less ado, fit the places we have assigned them, in the structure we intent: and so, a little trouble here, whiles our tools are still in our hands, and our matter lieth ready for our strokes, and our thoughts are warmeth with working upon them, may save us a great deal there, where our main employment will be, to lay artificially, and to join closely, what now we but hew out: and therefore will require finer instruments, and a sharper edge, than what at present serveth our turn.  
Let us then bring back to account all we have said in this Chapter: and when we have well reflected upon every particular, we shall find they all agree in this, that they are nothing else, but a due ordering of one thing with an other: a syllogism, is an ordering of some few notions: a science is an ordering of syllogisms, in such sort, as a new proposition may follow out of those which went before: and as we see that when by our thoughts divers syllogisms are well ordered, hidden things come to be disclosed in our understanding; even so among bodies, if things whose proprieties are known, be likewise ordered and put together, those very effects, which were discovered by the ordering of notions in our head, will spring forth in nature: as for example, if by knowing the natures of fire and of tow, our discourse findeth that tow put to fire will presently become fire, the same will happen in nature, if we put material tow, or some other body that hath the qualities of it, to real fire, or to some other substance that is endued with the virtues of fire: in like manner, if by knowing that colours are nothing else, but various mixtures of light and of darkness in bodies, our discourse assureth us, that by several compoundings of these extremes, reds, blewes, yellows, greene's, and all other intermediate colours may be generated; accordingly we shall find in effect, that by the several minglings of black and white bodies (because they reflect or drown light most powerfully) or by interweaving streams of pure light and of shadows one with an other, we may procreate new colours in bodies, and beget new luminous appearances to our eyes: so that hence it appeareth clearly, that the same nature is in our understanding, and in the things: and that the same ordering, which in the one maketh science, in the other causeth natural transmutations.  
An other reflection, which will be fit for us to make upon these long discourses, is this, that of necessity there must be a joining of some things now actually in our knowledge, unto other things we think not of: for it is manifest, that we can not at the same time actually think of a whole book of Euclid; and yet to the due knowledge of some of the last propositions, the knowledge of almost all the former is required: likewise it is impossible we should at the same time think of all the multitude of rules belonging to any art, as of Grammar, of Metering, of Architecture; and yet when we write in Latin, make a poem, or lay the design of a house, we practise them whiles we think not of them, and are assured we go not against them, however we remember them not.  
Nay, even before we know a thing, we seem to know it; for since we can have a desire of nothing, but of what we know▪ how could we desire to know such or such a thing, unless we know both it, and the knowledge of it? And for the most part we see a horse, or man, or herb, or workmanship, and by our sense have knowledge that such a thing it is, before we know what, or who, or how, it is: that groweth afterwards out of the diligent observation of what we see: which is that, whereby learned men differ from the unlearned, for what striketh the sense, is known a like by them both but then here is the difference between them, the later forth sitteth still with those notions, that are made at the first, by the beating of our sense upon us, without driving them any further: and those that are learned, do resolve such compounded notions, into others made by more common beatings, and therefore more simple: and this is all the odds in regard of knowledge, that a scholar hath of an unlettered man.  
One observation more we will draw out of what we have said, and then end this Chapter: it is, how a man doth oftentimes inquire among his own thoughts, and turneth up and down the images he hath in his head, and beateth his brains, to call such things into his mind, as are useful unto him, and are for the present out of his memory: which, as we see it so necessary, that without it no matter of importance can be performed in the way of discourse (whereof I myself have too frequent experience in the writing of this Treatise) so on the other side, we can not perceive that any creature besides man, doth it of set purpose and formally as man doth.   

THE FOURTH CHAPTER. How a man proceedeth to Action.  

1 That humane actions proceed from two several principles, understanding and sense.  Having thus taken a summary view of the principal Qualities a man is endued withal, Apprehending, judging, and Discoursing; and having showed how he is enriched in and by them with the natures of all things in the world; it remaineth for our last work in this part, to consider in what manner he maketh use of this treasure in his ordinary actions: which it is evident are of two different kinds, and consequently have two several principles, understanding and sense; these sway by turns, and sometimes join together, to produce a mixed action of both.  
If only sense were the fountain from whence his actions spring, we should observe no other strain in any of them, then merely that according to which beasts perform theirs: they would proceed ever more in a constant unuaryable tenor, according to the law of material things, one body working upon an other, in such sort as we have declared in the former Treatise.  
On the other side, if a man were all understanding, and had not this bright lamp enclosed in a pitcher of clay, the beams of it would shine without any allay of dimmenesse, through all he did; and he could do nothing contrary to reason, in pursuit of the highest end he had prefixed unto himself; for he neither would, nor could do any thing whatsoever, until he had first considered all the particular circumstances, that had relation to his action in hand; and had then concluded, that upon the whole matter, at this time, and in this place, to attain this end, it is fitting and best to do thus or thus: which conclusion could be no sooner made, but that the action would without any further disposition on his side, immediately ensue, agreeable to the principles it springeth from. Both parts of this assertion are manifest: for the first, it is evident, that whensoever an Agent worketh by knowledge, he is unresolued whether he shall work or not work, as also of his manner of working, until his knowledge (that aught to direct and govern his working) be perfect and complete: but that can not be, as long as any circumstance not as yet considered, may make it seem fit or unfit to proceed: and therefore, such actions as are done without exact consideration of every particular circumstance, do not flow from a pure understanding. From whence if followeth, that when an understanding is not satisfied of every particular circumstance, and consequently can not determine what he must immediately do, but apprehendeth that some of the circumstances not as yet considered, may (or rather must) change some part of his action, it must of necessity be undetermined in respect of the immediate action; and consequently, it must refrain absolutely from working. The other part is clear; to wit, that when the understanding, upon consideration of all circumstances, knoweth absolutely what is best, the act on followeth immediately (as far as dependeth of the understanding) without any further disposition on his behalf: for seeing that nothing but knowledge belongeth to the understanding, he who supposeth all knowledge in it, alloweth all that is requisite or possible for it to work by: now if all be put, nothing is wanting that should cause it to work: but where no cause is wanting, but all requisite causes are actually being, the effect must also actually be, and follow immediately out of them: and consequently, the action is done, (in as much as concerneth the understanding, and indeed absolutely, unless some other cause do fail) as soon as the understanding knoweth all the circumstances belonging to it: so as it is manifest out of this whole discourse, that if a man wrought only by his understanding, all his actions would be discreet and rational, in respect of the end he had proposed to himself; and till he were assured what were best he would keep himself in suspens and do nothing; and as soon as he were so, he would admit of no delays, but would at the instant proceed to action according to hi● knowledge: the contrary of all which, we daily see by experience in every man.  
We may then safely conclude, 
2 How our general and inbred maxims do concur to humane action.  that in humane nature there are two different centres, from whence cross actions do flow: the one he hath common with beasts, and whose principles and laws we delivered in the former Treatise, where we discoursed of life, and the motions of life and of passions: the other is the subject of our present enquiry; which in this place, expecteth at our hands, that we should consider how it demeaneth itself, and what it doth in us, when by its guidance we proceed to any action. Experience must be our informer in general: after which, our discourse shall anatomise what that presenteth us in bulk. She giveth us notice of three especial effects of our vnderstanding: first, that it ordereth a right those conceptions which are brought unto it: secondly, that when they appear to be not sufficient for the intended work, it casteth about and seeketh out others: and thirdly, that it strengtheneth those actions which spring from it; and keepeth them regular and firm and constant to their beginnings and principles. Unto which last seemeth to belong, that it sometimes ch●cketh its own thoughts, and bringeth back those it would have, and appeareth to keep as it were a watch over its own ways.  
As for the ordering of the present notions, it is clear that it is done by a secret dependence from the rules of discourse, and from the maxims of humane action: I call this dependence a secret one, because a man in his ordinary course, maketh use of those rules and maxims which serve his turn as though they were instilled into him by nature, without so much as ever thinking of them, or reflecting upon them to square out his actions by them: nay, some of them so far out of the reach of most men, as they can not think of them, though they would; for they know them not: as in particular, the rules of discourse, the use of which is so necessary, as without it no man can converse with an other, nor do any thing like a man, that is, reasonably. From whence then can this proceed, that so familiarly and readily a man maketh use of what he is not conscious to himself that he hath any acquaintance withal? It can be nothing else, but that the soul, being in her own nature ordered to do the same thing▪ which scholars with much difficulty arrive to know what it is by reflection and study, and then frame rules of that afterwards carry their discourse to a higher pitch, she by an inborn virtue maketh a man do it orderly, constantly, and certainly.  

3 That the rules and maxims of arts do work positively in us though we think not of them.  The like may be observed in the daily use men make of the maxims of humane action: which are certain knowledges that formerly they have gotten, but that th●y usually think not of, whiles they work agreeable to them; yet it seemeth they work by them; for if their action should jar against any of them, they would presently reflect upon their Maxim, and by it correct what they were about: for example, one who is skilled in the rules of Grammar, or of accenting his speech, or hath his ear used to Music, whiles he heareth true construction, or even verse, or consonant song, never reflecteth how it is made; or at most doth but consider in gross, that it is right: but if a solecism, or false quantity, or discord intervene he presently is aware, not only that it is amiss, but remembreth the very particular precise rule, against which the breach is made.  
This at the first sight might occasion us to imagine, that the rules by which any composition is made, do w●●ke only negatively in us, whiles we are busy about it: that is, that they contribute nothing to the making of the thing, but only hinder us from committing errors: but if we consider the matter well, we shall find it impossible, but that they should work even positively in us; for we know that when we first learn any of these things, we look industriously for such a gender, or number, or case, or tense, for such a foot or quantity, such a note, or consonance; and we are sure, that use and practise of the same thing, doth not change, but only facilitate the work: therefore it followeth of necessity, that we still use those very instructions, by which at the first we could but slowly creep, but now manage them with such celerity, as our fancy can not keep pace with what we do. And this is the reason why we do not perceive that we think of them, but may peradventure at the same time think of a quite different matter; as when a musician playeth voluntary division upon a ground he never saw before, and yet hath all the while some other thought in his head; or when a painter draweth a picture, and all the while discourseth with a by slander.  
This truth may be convinced by an other argument: as thus; it can not be doubted, but that a verse or song is made by the power of making such compositions: but that power is the art of them; and that art is nothing else but the rules whereby they are made: and accordingly we see, that who hath not the art, can not make such compositions: but who hath, can when he pleaseth: and if any man would be able to make them, he presently studyeth the art: so that it can not be doubted, but that artificial things are always made by the use of those rules which teach the making of them; although for the most part we are not able to perceive how such rules are used▪ and besides this, we are sure that we do not only make use of those rules we learned at the first, but when we are arrived to Mastery in any art, we make use of them in a quite different manner than we did in the beginning, and then we do in any other thing, wherein we find pain and difficulty.  
In the second effect that we experience of our understanding, 
4 How the understanding doth cast about when it wanteth sufficient grounds for action.  (which is, our casting about for new conceptions, when those it already hath, appear not sufficient to direct what it hath in hand) the force and working of it, is very evident: for this effect proceedeth out of a want of satisfaction: and this belongeth properly to the understanding; for if evidence and satisfaction be qualities of it, then of necessity the privation of these qualities, must likewise belong unto it; as also to discern that privation, and to use means to avoid it: and in the very casting about, we see a choice made; and that things are not taken promiscuously as they come of a row, but that some of them are set aside, and others advanced for use: which argueth plainly the knowledge and government of the understanding. 
5 How reason doth rule over sense and passion.   
But the third operation, is that which giveth clearest evidence of the peculiar and distinct working of the understanding: for if we mark the contestation and strife within us, between our sensual part and his antagonist which mainteneth the resolution set by reason, and observe how exceedingly their courses and proceedings differ from one an other; we shall more plainly discern the nature, and power, and efficacy of both of them. We may perceive that the motions against Reason, rise up turbulently, as it were in billows, and like a hill of boiling water (as truly Passion is a conglobation of spitits) do put us into an unquiet and distempered heat and confusion: on the other side, Reason endeavoureth to keep us in our due temper, by sometimes commanding down this growing sea; otherwhiles, by contenting in some measure the desires of it, and so diverting an other way its unruly force: sometimes she terrifyeth it, by the proposal of offensive things joined unto those it is so earnest to enjoy: again, sometimes she preventeth it, by cutting of all the causes and helps that promote on its impotent desires, and by engaging before hand the power of it in other things, and the like.  
All which do evidently convince, that as Reason hath a great strength and power in opposition of sense, so it must be a quite different thing, and of a contrary nature unto it: we may add, that the work of Reason can never be well performed, but in a great quiet and tranquillity; whereas the motions of Passion, are always accompanied with disorder and perturbation: so as it appeareth manifestly, that the force of Reason, is not purely the force of its instruments, but the force of its instruments as they are guided, and as the quantities of them are proportioned by it: and this force of Reason, is different from the force of its instruments in themselves, in such sort as the force of a song, is different from the force of the same sounds, whereof it is composed, taken without that order which the musician putteth in them: for otherwise the more spirits that are raised by any thought (which spirits are the instruments whereby Reason performeth all her operations in us) the more strongly Reason should work; the contrary of which is evident, for we see that too great abundance of spirits confoundeth Reason.  

6 How we recall our thoughts from distractions.  This is as much as at present I intent to insist upon, for proof that our understanding hath its proper and distinct operations, and worketh in a peculiar manner, and in a quite different strain from all that is done by our senses. Peradventure some may conceive, that the watchfulness and recalling of our thoughts back to their enjoined work, when they break loose and run astray, and our not letting them range abroad at random, doth also convince this assertion: but I confess ingeniously, the testimony of it seemeth not clear to me; and therefore I rank it not with those, that I would have (if it may be) solidely weighty, and undeniable to who shall consider maturely the bottom and full efficaciousness of them. Of such, a few, or any one, is enough to settle one's mind in the belief of a truth: and I hope, that this which we have laboured for in this Chapter, is so sufficiently proved, as we need not make up our evidence with number of testimonies.  
But to show the exceptions I take against this argument, let us examine, how this act within us which we call watchfulness, is performed: truly, me thinketh it appeareth to be nothing else, but the promptitude and recourse of some spirits, that are proper for this effect, which by a man's earnestness in his resolution, do take a strong impression, and so are still ready to knock frequently at the door of our vnderstanding, and thereby enable it with power to recall our strayed thoughts. Nay, the very reflection itself, which we make upon our thoughts, seemeth unto me to be only this, that the object beating upon the fancy, carrieth back with it at its retiring from thence, some little particle or atom of the brain or Septum Lucidum, against which it beateth, sticking upon it; in like manner as upon an other occasion, we instanced in a ball rebounding from a green mud wall, unto which some of the matter of the wall must needs adhere: now this object, together with the addition it getteth by its stroke upon the fancy, rebounding thence, and having no more to do there at present, betaketh itself to rest quietly in some cell it is disposed into in the brain, as we have delivered at large in our former Treatise, where we discoursed of Memory: but whensoever it is called for again by the fancy, or upon any other occasion returneth thither, it cometh as it were capped with this additional piece it acquired formerly in the fancy; and so maketh a representation of its own having been formerly there.  
Yet, be these actions performed how they will, it can not be denied, but that both of them are such, as are not fit, nor would be any ways useful to creatures, that have not the power of ordering their own thoughts and fancies, but are governed throughout merely by an uniform course of nature: which ordering of thoughts, being an operation feasible only by rational creatures, and by none others, these two actions (which would be in vain, where such ordering is not used) seem to be specially ordained by nature, for the service of Reason and of the Understanding; although peradventure a precise proper working of the understanding, do not clearly shine in it. Much less can we by experience find among all the actions we have hitherto spoken of, that our Reason or Understanding worketh singly and alone by itself, without the assistance and consortshippe of the fantasy: and as little can I tell how go about to seek any experience of it.  
But what Reason may do in this particular, 
7 How reason is sometimes overcome by sense and passion.  we shall hereafter inquire: and end this Chapter, with collecting out of what is said, how it fareth with us, when we do any thing against Reason, or against our own knowledge. If this happen by surprise, it is plain that the watch of Reason was not so strong as it should have been, to prevent the admittance or continuance of those thoughts, which work that transgression. Again, if it be occasioned by Passion, it is evident that in this case▪ the multitude and violence of those spirits which Passion sendeth boiling up to the fantasy, is so great, as the other spirits, which are in the jurisdiction and government of Reason, are not able for the present to balance them and stay their impetuosity, whiles she maketh truth appear. Sometimes we may observe, that Reason hath warning enough, to muster together all her forces, to encounter, as it were in set battle, the assault of some concupiscence, that sendeth his unruly bands to take possession of the fancy, and constrain it to serve their desires, and by it to bring Reason to their bent. Now if in this pitched field she lose the bridle, and be carried away against her own resolutions, and be forced like a captive to obey the others laws, it is clear that her strength was not so great as the contrary factions.  
The cause of which is evident; for we know that she can do nothing, but by the assistance of the spirits which inhabit the brain: now than it followeth, that if she have not the command of those spirits which flock thither, she must of necessity be carried along by the stream of the greater and stronger multitude; which in our case, is the throng of those that are sent up into the brain by the desired object; and they come thither so thick and so forcibly, that they displace the others which fought under Reason's standard: which if they do totally, and excluding reasons party, do entirely possess the fancy with their troops, (as in madness and in extremity of sudden passion it happeneth) then must Reason wholly follow their sway, without any struggling at all against it; for whatsoever beateth on the fancy, occasioneth her to work; and therefore when nothing beateth there but the messengers of some sensual object, she can make no resistance to what they impose: but if it bappen that these tumultuary ones, be not the only spirits which beat there, but that Reason hath likewise some under her jurisdiction, which keep possession for her, though they be too weak to turn the others out of doors; than it is true, she can still direct fairly, how in that case a man should govern himself; but when he cometh to execute; he findeth his sinews already possessed, and swelled with the contrary spirits; and they keeping out the smaller and weaker number, which reason hath ranked in order, and would furnish those parts withal, he is drawn even against his judgement and Reason, to obey their appetites, and to move himself in prosecution of what they propose; in such sort as the Poet expresseth that Medea found in herself, when she complained and bemoaned herself in these words: Video meliora proboque, Deteriora sequor: and in this case, a man forseeth his misery all the way he rouleth towards it, and leapeth into the precipice with his eyes open: which showeth that the army of thoughts on Reason's side, should be increased in number, to have her strong enough to wage battle with the rebellious adversary: or else, that her adversary should be so much weakened, that she, though not grown stronger in herself, yet might, through the others enfeebling, be able to make her party good; (and hence is the use of corporeal mortifications, to subject our Passions to the behest of Reason) even as when we see, that when we are in health, our arms, and legs, and all our limbs, obey our will, reaching what we command them, and carrying us whither we desire, because the spirits which are sent into them from our brain, are strong enough to raise and move them as they are directed; but if our sinews be so steeped in some cold and watery humour, that the spirits coming down, find not means to swell and harden them; well we may wish and strive, but all in vain: for we shall not be able to make them perform their due functions. In like manner, if reason do send her emissaries into the same arm or leg or other member, and no other spirits do there strive against them, than that limb is moved and governed absolutely according to her directions: but if at the same time, a greater multitude of others, do hinder Reasons servants from coming thither, or flocking into other sinews, do carry that limb a contrary way; in vain doth Reason strive to move them to her bias; for those obeing parts must observe the rules which the violent conqueror prescribeth.   

THE fifth CHAPTER. Containing proofs out of our single apprehensions, that our soul is incorporeal.  
AS in our first Treatise we dissected nature, 
1 The connection of the subsequent Chapters with the precedent.  and showed, how out of the notion and first division of Quantity, ariseth that vast multiplicity of things, which filling this world, falleth under the consideration of our senses: so in the beginning of this second Treatise, we have searched into those operations of a man (attributed to his soul) by which he is conceived to excel all other living creatures: and there discovered, that the admirable, and unlimited variety of works, which is seen in men's writings and actions, doth all flow from the source of single apprehensions; and even from one bare notion of Being: which is the root and principle, from whence all others derive their origine; and into which all may be resolved; works proceeding from resolutions, they from discourses, these being composed to judgements, and judgements of single apprehensions. This part we must now review, and inquire what we can find in man's operation, arguing the Quality of his Soul, whether it be corporeal or no. For if these single apprehensions, and the processes compounded of them, may be performed by the ordering of rare and dense parts (as the other works of nature are) than they will be corporeal, and of the same kind with those, which we opened in the first Treatise: but if we shall prove, that they can not possibly be deduced from multiplicity, and order of Quantitative parts, than we may confidently resolve ourselves, that in the cause from which they flow, is a nature wholly discrepant from that which resideth among bodies, and among corporeal things.  
This we shall here labour to do: and to that end, we will begin our work with reflecting upon what we have delivered of a single apprehension, in the first Chapter of this second Treatise: whose nature we there first explicated common; and thence proceeded to some particular apprehensions; and lastly showed the extent they comprehended. These than must be the subject of our present speculation.  

2 The inexistence of corporeal things in the soul by the power of apprehension, doth prove her to be immaterial.  As for their nature, we may remember, how we resolved three things: first, that by apprehension, the very thing apprehended is by itself in our soul: next, that the notion of Being, is the first of all notions, and is resumed in all others: and thirdly, that what is added to the notion of Being, is but respects to other things. Now then let us consider, what kind of engines they must be, that may have the power to make things themselves to be in our soul, if they were to be there materially? How shall the place, or the time passed, be removed, and be put in an other place, and in an other time? How shall the quantity of the heavens, of the whole world, nay of bigness exceeding all that by millions of proportional increases, be shut up in the little circuit of man's brain? And yet if we examine ourselves strictly, we shall find nothing wanting; all is there. How shall the same thing, be corporeally in two, nay in two thousand places, at the same time? And yet, in so many is the sun, when two thousand men think of it at once. We must then allow, that things are there immaterially; and consequently, that what receiveth them, is immaterial: since every thing is received according to the measure and nature of what receiveth it.  
But I easily conceive, that the strangeness and incredibility of our position, may counterbalance the force of it: for who can persuade himself, that the very thing he apprehendeth, is in his mind? I acknowledge, that if its being there, were to be understood corporeally, it were impossible: but on the other side, who shall consider, that he knoweth the thing he ●ightly apprehendeth, that it worketh in him, and maketh him work agreeable to its nature, and that all the properties and singularities of it may be displayed by what is in him, and are as it were unfolded in his mind, he can neither deny nor doubt, but that it is there in an admirable and spiritual manner. If you ask me how this cometh to pass? And by what artifice, bodies are thus spiritualised? I confesse I shall not be able to satisfy you: but must answer, that it is done, I know not how, by the power of the soul: show me a soul, and I will tell you how it worketh: but as we are sure there is a soul, (that is to say, a Principle from whence these operations spring) though we can not see it: so we may, and do certainly know, that this mystery is as we say; though because we understand not the true and complete nature of a soul, we can as little express the manner, how it is done by a soul. Yet, before we take our leave of this matter of Apprehensions, we will in due place endeavour to say something towards the clearing of this obscure point.  

3 The notion of being, which is innate in the soul, doth prove the same.  Our second consideration upon the nature of Apprehension, was, that our primary and main notion, is of Being. This discovereth some little glimpse of the nature of the soul: for it is manifest that she applieth this notion, as well to no parts, as to parts: which we proved in the first Treatise, when we showed that we have a particular notion of substance, distinct from the notion of Quantity; for quantity and Parts being the same, it followeth that if there be a notion supposed by quantity, (as in substance there is) it must of necessity abstract from parts: and consequently, we may conclude, that the notion of Being, which is indifferently appliable either to quantity or to substance, doth of its own nature wholly abstract either from Parts, or from no Parts. I then infer: that since this notion of Being, is the very first and virgin notion our soul is imbued with or is capable of, and that it is the root of all other notions, and into which she resolveth every other notion, in such sort, as when we have sifted and searsed the essence of any notion whatsoever, we can discover nothing that is deeper than this, or precedent to it, and that it agreeth so completely with our soul, as she seemeth to be nothing else but a capacity fitted to Being; it can not be denied, but that our soul must needs have a very near affinity and resemblance of nature with it: but it is evident, that Being hath not of itself any parts in it, nor of itself is capable of division: and therefore it is as evident, that the soul, which is framed (as it were) by that pattern and Idea, and is fitted for Bein● as for its end, must also of itself be void of parts, and be in capable of division. For how can parts be fitted to an indivisible thing? And how can two such different natures ever meet porportionably?  
If it be objected, that the very notion of Being, from whence we estimate the nature of the soul, is accommodable to parts: as for example, we see that substance is endued with quantity. We answer, that even this doth corroborate our proof: for seeing that the substances, which our senses are acquainted withal, have parts, and can not be without parts; and yet nevertheless in our soul, the notion of such substance is found without parts; it is clear, that such substance hath this merely from our soul: and because it hath this indisibility from our soul, it followeth that our soul hath a power and nature to bestow indivisibility upon what cometh into her. And since it can not be denied, but that if any substance were once existent without parts, it could never after have parts; it is evident, that the nature of the soul is incapable of parts; because it is existent without parts. And that it is in such sort existent, is clear: for this effect of the souls giving indivisibility unto what she receiveth into her, proceedeth from her as she is existent. Now since this notion of Being, is of all others the first and original notion that is in the soul, it must needs above all others, savour most of the proper and genuine nature of the soul: in which, and by which, it is what it is, and hath its indivisibility.  
If then it be pressed; how can substance (in reality or in things) be accommodated unto Quantity, seeing that of itself it is indivisible? We answer, that such substance, as is the subject of Quantity, and that hath Quantity, is not indivisible; for such substance can not be subsistent without Quantity▪ and when we frame a notion of it, as being indivisible, it is an effect of the force of our soul, that is able to draw a notion out of a thing that hath parts, without drawing the notion of the parts: which showeth manifestly, that in her there is a power above having of parts: which being in her, argueth her existence to be such.  

4 The same is proved by the notion of respects.  Our last consideration upon the nature of apprehension, was, how all that is added to the notion of Being, is nothing else but respects of one thing to an other; and how by these respects, all the things of the world come to be in our soul. The evidence we may draw from hence of our soul's immateriality, will be not a whitt less, then either of the two former: for let us cast our looks over all that cometh into our senses, and see if from one end to an other, we can meet with such a thing as we call a respect: it hath neither figure, nor colour, nor smell, nor motion, nor taste, nor touch; it hath no similitude to be drawn out of by means of our senses: to be like, to be half, to be cause, or effect, what is it? The things (indeed) that are so, have their resemblances and pictures; but which way should a painter go about to draw a likeness? Or to paint a half, or a cause, or an effect? If we have any understanding, we can not choose but understand, that these notions are extremely different, from whatsoever cometh in unto us by the mediation of our senses: and then if we reflect, how the whole negotiation of our understanding is in, and by respects; must it not follow necessarily, that our soul is of an extreme different nature from our senses, and from our Imagination? Nay, if we look well into this argument, we shall see, that whereas Aristotle pretendeth, that Nihil est in intellectu quod non prius fuit in sensu; this Maxim is so far from being true, (in rigour of the words) that the quite contrary followeth undeniably out of it; to wit, that Nihil est in intellectu quod fuit prius in sensu. Which I do not say to contradict Aristotle (for his words are true in the meaning he spoke them;) but to show, how things are so much changed by coming into the understanding and into the soul, that although on the one side, they be the very same things, yet on the other side there remaineth no likeness at all between them in themselves as they are in the understading; which is a most evident proof, (when the weight of it is duly considered) that the nature of our soul, is mainly different from the nature of all corporeal things, that come into our sense.  
By this which we now come from declaring, the admiration, how corporeal things can be in the soul, 
5 That corporeal things are spiritualised in the understanding by means of the souls working in and by respects.  and how they are spiritualised by their being so, will in part be taken away: for reflecting that all the notions of the soul, are nothing but the general notion of a substance, or of a thing joined with some particular respect; ●f than we consider, that the respects may be so ordered, that one respect may be included in an other, we shall see, that there may be some one respect, which may include all those respects that explicate the nature of some one thing: and in this case, the general notion of a thing coupled with this respect, will contain all whatsoever is in the thing: as for example, the notion of a knife, that it is a thing to cut withal, includeth (as we have formerly declared) all that belongeth unto a knife. And thus you see, how that mystical phrase, of corporeal things being spiritualised in the soul, signifieth no more, but that the similitudes which are of them in the soul, are Respects.  
Thus having collected out of the nature of Apprehension in common, 
6 That the abstracting of notions from all particular and individual accidents, doth prove the immateriality of the soul.  as much as we conceive needful in this place to prove our assertion, our next work must be, to try if we can do the like by reflecting upon particular apprehensions. We considered them of two sorts, calling one kind, universal ones; and the other, collective ones: in the universal ones, we took notice of two conditions, the abstraction, and the universality of them: now truly if we had no other evidence, but what will rise from the first of these, that alone would convince and carry the conclusion: for though among corporeal things, the same may be now in one place, now in an other, or sometimes have one figure, sometimes an other, and still be the same things, as for example wax or water; yet, it is impossible to imagine any bodily thing whatsoever, to be at any time without all kind of figure, or without any place at all, or indifferent to this or to that; and nevertheless, all things whatsoever, when they are universally apprehended by the soul, have this condition in her by reason of their abstraction there, which in themselves is impossible unto them. When we say water, fire, gold, silver, bread &c: do we mean or express any determinate figure? If we do, none but that precise figure, will serve or content us: but it is evident, that of a hundred different ones, any and every one doth a like entirely satisfy us: when we call for money, if we reflect upon our fancy, peradventure we shall find there a purse of crowns: nevertheless, if our messenger brings us a purse of pistoles, we shall not except against it, as not being what we intended in our mind, because it is not that which was painted in our fancy: it is therefore evident, that our meaning and our fancy were different; for otherwise, nothing would have satisfied us, but that which was in our fancy. Likewise, in the very word (which is the picture of our notion) we see an indifferency; for no dictionary will tell us, that this word Money doth not signify as well pistoles as crowns: and accordingly we see, that if our meaning had been precisely of crowns, we should have blamed ourselves for not having named crowns, and not him that brought us pistoles, when we spoke to him by the name of money: and therefore it is most clear, that our understanding or meaning is not fixed or determined to any one particular; but is equally indifferent to all: and consequently, that it can not be like any thing which entereth by the senses; and therefore not corporeal.  
The second condition of Universal Apprehensions, is their universality: 
7 That the universality of abstracted notions doth prove the same.  which addeth unto their abstraction, one admirable particularity, and it is, that they abstract in such sort, as to express at the same time even the very thing they abstract from. How is it possible, that the same thing, can be, and not be in the same notion? Yet let a man consider what he meaneth when he saith, Every man hath two eyes; and he shall see that he expresseth nothing, whereby any one man is distinguished from an other: and yet the force of this word Every, doth express that every man is distinguished from an other; so that in truth, he expresseth particularity itself in common. Now, let our smartest and ingeniousest adversary, show or imagine if he can, how this may be done in a picture, or in a statue, or in any resemblance of a body or bodily thing: but if he can not, let him acknowledge an eminent and singular propriety in the soul, that is able to do it.  
Let us reflect, that particularity in a body, is a collection of divers qualities and circumstances; as that it is white, of such a figure, in such a place, in such a time, and an infinitude of such like conditions, conglobated together: then, if our soul be a body, the expression of the particularity of a body in the soul, must be a participation in her of such a conglobation, or of such things conglobated. Now let us imagine if we can, how such a participation should be in common, and should abstract from all colour, all place, and all those things of which the conglobation consisteth: and yet we see, that in the soul this is done; and he who saith Every man, doth not express any colour, place, or time; and nevertheless he doth by saying so express, that in every man there is a conglobation of colour, place, and time: for it could not be Every one, unless there were such conglobations to make Every one, one: and if any conglobation were expressed in this term Every one, it would not be Every one, but only one alone. Now if any coordination of parts, can unfold and lay open this riddle, I will renounce all Philosophy and understanding.  

8 That collective apprehensions do prove the same.  Collective apprehensions will afford us no meaner testimony than the other two, for the spirituality of our soul: for although it may seem unto us, before we reflect throughly on the matter, that we see, or otherwise discern by our sense, the numbers of things; as that the men in the next room, are three; that the chairs there, are ten; and the like of other things; yet after due consideration, we shall find, that our eye, or sense telleth us but singly of each one, that it is one; and so runneth over every one of them; keeping them still each by themselves, under their own several unities: but then the understanding cometh, and joineth under one notion, what the sense kept a sunder in so many several ones, as there are things. The notion of three, or of ten, is not in the things, but in our mind; for why three rather than five, or ten rather than twelve, if the matter of which we speak were not determined? and such determination of the matter, is an effect of the understanding. If I had spoken of things, as I did of men, or of chairs, there had been more than three or ten: it is then evident, that what determined my speech, made the number be three or ten.  
Again, we see that the notion of ten, is but one notion; for as the name of ten, is but one sign, so it argueth, that there is but one notion, by which it is the sign of ten things. Besides, we see that Arithmetitians do find out the proprieties and particular nature of any determinate number: and therefore we may conclude, that every number hath a definition, and a peculiar nature of its own, as it is a number. If then this definition, or nature, or notion of ten, be a corporeal one, it is a corporeal similitude of the object. But is it like to any one of the things, or is it like to all the ten? If to any one, then that one will be ten; if it be like to the whole made of ten, than that whole being but one, ten will be just one, and not ten things.  
Besides, to be ten, doth expressly imply to be not one: how then can that be a material thing, which by being one representeth many? Seeing that in material things, one and many are opposite, and exclude one an other from the same subject? And yet, this notion could not represent many together, but by being one.  
Again, if it be a material notion or similitude, it is either in an indivisible of the brain, or it is in a divisible part of it: I mean, that the whole essence of the notion be in every part never so little of the brain, or that one part of the essence, be in one part of the brain, and that an other part of the essence, be in an other part of the brain. If you say, that the whole essence is in every part of the brain, though never so little; you make it impossible that it should be a body; for you make it the likeness of ten determinate bodies, in an indivisible manner; seeing that what by division groweth not less, hath the nature of an indivisible: but if you say, that divers parts of the essence, are in divers parts of the brain, than you make it impossible that the notion of ten, should be indivisible; since itself is composed of several parts.  
In a word▪ ten things can not be represented materially, but by ten other things: and therefore it is most evident, that the soul which representeth ten by one thing or notion, doth not represent the ten materially: and consequently, that herself is immaterial.  
What we have now said, will be confirmed by considering the terms, All and whole: for it is clear, that these terms also, are of the nature of numbers; but withal, do express particularly that no part is wanting. If then the notion of All or whole, be said to be material and quantitative, it must be divisible: but if you divide it, no part remaineth All or whole: it is not therefore divisible; and consequently it is not material. And as this argument, is manifestly appliable to numbers, so if we look into the arguments concerning numbers, you will find all them likewise appliable to these terms, 
9 The operations of the soul drawing always from multitude to unity, do prove the same.  All and whole.  
Out of what hath been hitherto discovered, we may gather this note: that it is the nature of the soul, to draw from divisibility, to indivisibility; from multitude, to unity; from indeterminatenesse and confusion▪ to a clarity and determination: as appeareth evidently in this last example of Collections; in which, whether we take numbers, or other collective terms, we see that throughout their natures do consist in such a perfect indivisibility, as no part can be separated without destroying the essence of the notion: nay, things which in themselves are many and consist in parts, do in the mind get an impartible nature; for ten, is no longer ten, if it be divided: nor all, is all, if any thing be taken away. In the same manner, though Philosophy teach us, there be neither points in bigness, nor instances in motion or time, yet nature maketh us express all bigness by points, and all time by instantes; the soul ever fixing itself upon indivisibility.  
And this is the reason, why we attribute the nature of substance to all our notions: if we see a thing white, or black, or do, or suffer, or be in a place, or in time; presently in our apprehension we conceive these modifications of the thing, like substances; and accordingly we call them by substantive names, Whiteness, Action, Vbication, Duration, &c: now the reason of this is, because a substance, (that is terminated within itself) is a fit and a steady ground for the soul to fix itself upon, whereas these other Appendices of substance, would not afford her easy footing to build her structures upon, if she considered them as truly they are in themselves: and therefore in her notion, she giveth them the qualities of substance: but withal it happeneth many times, that by her doing thus, if she be not very wary, she is deceived and falleth into gross errors.  
One thing more we must remember to take notice of▪ and it is, that if we will compare the notions in our understanding, 
10 The difference betwixt the notion of a thing in our understanding, and the impression that correspondeth to the same thing in our fancy, doth prove the same.  with the signs which beating in our fancy do beget those notions; we shall find, that these are but barely signs; and do not in their own nature express, either the notions they raise, or the things they are signs of. This is evident in the images of the sounds we call words: for it is clear, they have no likeness either with the things they signify, or with the thoughts they beget in us: and we shall find it no less true of other images; for example, in the exterior impressions of sensible qualities, which seem by themselves to be in the understanding; for if we consider the matter well, we shall perceive that we understand nothing more by them, than we do by mere words; and that to work, or to discourse out of them, we must seek into the objects, and their definitions; whereof we learn nothing by those first impressions: for it seemeth, that (for example) hot, or red, or sweet, to a man that first seeth, or feeleth, or tasteth them, signifieth nothing else, but a thing which maketh such an apprehension in his soul, or such a phantasm in his interior sense; and nevertheless, as yet the man knoweth not that he hath a soul, or an interior sense; nor doth reflect so far as to consider, that this motion passeth by his exterior sense; but his apprehension is immediately carried to the thing without him; and he imagineth that the impression he feeleth, is in the thing he feeleth; and so he that should feel himself heated by a burning glass, and were not acquainted with the virtue of such a glass, would think the glass were hot: yet certainly, his first apprehension is of the motion made in his fancy, (though he imagineth it elsewhere) which he conceiveth to be the nature of the thing that maketh it. And thus we see that the conversion of the soul, is immediate to a thing without the man: which also is the effect of her being fixed to Existence; for by reason of that, she still apprehendeth every impression as a thing.  
But now, whether her apprehension doth include the very impression, which is in the sense or in the fancy, so that by its own likeness it be in the soul, or whether the impression in the fancy maketh a change in the soul, which we can not discern in itself, but conceive it to be the impression which is in the fancy, because that impression is at the first continually present at the said mutation; is more obscure and hard to discover. But when we reflect that after some time, words do succeed in lieu of this impression, and do perform the same effect as the original impression, in what language soever they be uttered, so they be understood; we may conclude out of this evident sign, that the impression is in the understanding not in its own likeness, but in an other shape, which we do not discover; and which is excitated, as well by the name, as by the impression, in a man that is used to the names.  
Again, in a man that learneth things by himself, these impressions serve for words, and not for things; for such a man never looketh into his fancy to discourse upon any thing, but only upon the mutation he conceiveth is made in the extern sense: out of which he gathereth by little and little, the nature of the thing, whose notion was made at first in him by this impression. Out of which it is manifest, that our knowledge is as different a thing, from the Phantasms which beat at the soul's door, as the thing signified is f●om the sound of the word, or as the wine in the cellar is from the bush: and therefore, it is impossible that the soul (in which that knowledge resideth, and which indeed is that knowledge) should be a corporeal or bodily thing: since of all bodily things, the motions that are made by the sensible qualities, arrive nearest to a spiritual nature.  
It remaineth now, 
11 The apprehension of negations and privations do prove the same.  that we should argue for the immateriality of the soul, out of the extent of our apprehension: which seemeth to be so excessive, as not to be comprehensible by the limitations of bodies; and therefore can not belong unto a body: but because all that needeth to be said in this particular, followeth plainly out of grounds already urged, and that this point containeth not any notable particularity deserving mention here; we will not enlarge ourselves any further upon it: but will pass on to the next line of operations proper unto our mind.  
Only we may not omit taking notice of the expressions which our mind maketh of nothing, or as Logicians term it, of Negations and Privations: which do argue an admirable power in the soul, and of a quite different strain from all corporeal things; and do evidently convince the immateriality of it: for it can not be doubted, but that the soul knoweth what she meaneth, when she discourseth of Nothing. Now if all her knowledge, were nothing else but corporeal phantasms, or pictures made by corporeal things, how should she come to have a notion of Nothing? for since it is most clear, that something can not be like Nothing, and that there can not be a participation of what is not; how can we conceive that there should be a similitude made of Nothing?  
The way therefore that the soul taketh in this operation, is, that comparing two things together, and finding that the one of them is not the other; she reflecteth upon her own action, and dividing in it the thing said, from the saying, she taketh the thing said for a quality, or property, or predicate (as Logicians call it) of that thing which she denyeth to be the other thing; and then she giveth it a positive name, after she hath first made a positive notion, unto which the name may agree: as for example; when the soul considereth a man that hath not the power to see, as soon as she hath to herself pronunced, that he hath not such a power, she taketh the not power to see, for a quality of that man; and then giveth the name of blindness to that not power of seeing; which though of itself it be nothing, yet by being that which satisfyeth her act, when she sayeth that he hath not the power of seeing, it seemeth to be ranked among those things, unto which names are due: for it hath a notion; and the having a notion, is the claim, or merit; or dignity, in virtue whereof things are preferred to names.  
Now then, let us inquire how the power of rarity and density, or the multiplication and order of parts, can be raised and refined to the state of being like nothing, or of being the similitude of a negation; or what operation of rarity ad density, can forge out this notion of blindness, which we have explicated: and when we ●ind, it is beyond their reach to compass, we must acknowledge, that the soul is an other kind of engine, than all those which are in the storehouse of bodies.   

THE sixth CHAPTER. Containing proofs out of our soul's operations in knowing or deeming any thing, that she is of a spiritual nature.  

1 The manner of judging or deeming by apprehending two things to be identified, doth prove the soul to be immaterial.  Our next consideration shall be to see what testimony our manner of judging, doth yield us of the nature of the soul: concerning which, three things offer themselves, worthy the reflecting on; which are, our manner of thinking; the opposition which frequently occurreth in our thoughts; and the nature of truth and of falsehood. As for the first, we may remember how we have showed, that all judgement or deeming is but an apprehension of identification, or something immediately following out of it: and that a settled judgement or assent of the mind is as it were a limb, or branch, or graft in our soul; so that we find that our perceiving of identification between two things, or our seeing that the one is the other, is that by which our soul increaseth. Now, because when two things are identifyed, the one reacheth not further than the other, it is clear that this increase of the soul is not made by parts, which being added one to an other do cause it to be greater: and therefore, since this latter course is the only means of increase in bodies and in quantity, it is as clear that the nature of the soul, is quite different from the nature of all corporeal or Quantitative things.  
Again, it is against the nature of identification, to be of parts; and therefore, they who take quantity to be one thing, and not many things tied together, do acknowledge that truly there are no parts in it: and this is so rigorously true, that although we speak of two things that in reality are identifyed one with an other, yet if our words be such, as imply that our understanding considereth them as distinct parts, and by abstraction giveth them the nature of parts; then they are no longer identifyed, but in good Logic, we ought in this case to deny the one of the other. As for example: though the hand and the foot be the same thing, (as we have declared in our first Treatise) yet because in the name hand, there is a secret exclusion of any thing that is not in the definition of a hand, it followeth that in our speech we must say, that a hand is not a foot Likewise though it be confessed, that the thing which is rationality is also risibility; nevertheless, it is a solecism in Logic, to say that rationality is risibility; because it is the nature of these abstracted names, to confine their signifycations to one definition; and the definitions of these two terms are divers. Out of this consideration it followeth clearly, that seeing the nature of parts, is contrary to the nature of identity; and that the soul in her judgements worketh altogether by identity, it is impossible that her operations should consist of parts, or in any sort resemble any proceeding of Quantitative things.  
The like will be convinced out of the opposition we find in our thoughts. 
2 The same is proved by the manner of apprehending opposition in a negative judgement.  In it we may consider two things: first the generation of it: next, the incompossibility of opposites in the soul. To begin with the first: we see that in our speaking, opposition is produced by the addition of this word Not: as when we say, not a man, not a penny, not a word; and therefore it followeth, that in our soul there is a notion of it, correspondent to the word that expresseth it. Now, seeing that a notion is a thing, and that it is the likeness of its object, or rather the same with the object; let us cast about, how we should of parts and of Quantity, make a nothing, or an identification to not: and when we find that it is ridiculous and absurd to go about it, let us conclude, that the manner of working, which our soul useth, is far different from that which is used in bodies, and among material things.  
And if you object, that not only a body, but even any other substance whatsoever (suppose it as spiritual as you will) can not be either like, or identifyed to nothing; and therefore this argument will as well prove that the soul is not a thing or substance, as that it is not a body: we answer, that it is evident out of what we have already said, that the understanding is not the objects it vnderstandeth, by way of similitude, but by a higher means; which we have showed to be by way of Respects. Now then, the respect which a thing hath to an other thing, by not having such a respect unto it, as a third thing formerly considered hath thereunto, may be expressed in way of Respects, though it can not in way of similitude: and so our understanding is able to express, what neither our fancy, nor any corporeal thing can arrive to the expression of: as when first we find, that one man hath a respect to the wall, which we call the power of seeing, it if afterwards we find that an other man hath a respect unto the wall of impotence, that he can not see it, this second respect the understanding hath a power to express as well as the first: as we have touched above.  

3 That things in themselves opposite to one an other having no opposition in the soul, doth prove the same.  As for the opposition that occurreth in our thoughts, we may consider it of two kinds: the one is of the things or objects that come into our thoughts or into our soul: and this is not properly an opposition in the soul; for although the things be opposite by their own nature in themselves, yet they do not exercise their opposition in the soul: nay, though the opposition be even in the soul itself, if the soul with this opposition, be considered as an object, it maketh no opposition in the soul; for so you may consider your soul learned and unlearned, ignorant and knowing, good and bad, and the like: all which are oppositions in a soul supposed to be so qualifyed, but are no oppositions in a soul that considereth them: no more than fire and water, heavy things and light, white and black, being and not being, an affirmative proposition and its negative, and the like: all which are in themselves so contrary and opposite to one an other, that they can not consist together in one subject; they have an incompossibility among themselves; wheresoever the one of them is, by its very entrance it driveth out its opposite: and yet in the soul they agree together without reluctance: she knoweth and considereth and weigheth both sides of the scale at the same time, and ballanceth them evenly one against an other: for unless both the opposites were in the same instant in the same comparing power, that power could not by one act whose beginning implieth its ending, judge the difference and opposition of them: as when we say black is contrary to white, or darkness is the want of light, we pronounce one common not being of both extremes.  
We may then boldly conclude, that since no body whatsoever can entertain at the same time, and in the same place, these quarrelling Antagonistes, but that by their conflict, they presently destroy one an other, and peradventure the body too, into which they press for entrance, and the entire possession of which each of them striveth for; (those of them I mean, that are proportioned to the reception of bodies) and that the soul imbibeth them together without any difficulty or contrast, and preserveth them always friends even in the face of one an other, and lodgeth them together in the same bed; and that (in a word) these opposite things do enjoy an admirable and unknown manner of Being in the soul, and which hath no parallel nor argument in bodily things: we may (I say) boldly conclude, that the soul itself, in which all these are, is of a nature, and hath a manner of Being altogether unlike the nature of bodies, and their manner of Being.  
Out of this agreeing of all objects in the soul, 
4 That the first truths are identified to the soul.  and their having no opposition there, even whiles she knoweth the opposition that is between them in themselves, there followeth an other consideration, of no less importance: which is, that the amplitude of our soul in respect of knowledge, is absolutely infinite; that is to say, she is capable of knowing at the same time objects without end or measure. For the explicating whereof, we are to consider, that the latter conclusions, which the soul gaineth knowledge of, do hang to the former by identification, or by the souls seeing that two notions are identifyed, because they are identifyed to a third, as is before expressed; and the first principles which seem to be immediately joined unto the soul, have the identity of their terms plain and evident, even in the very terms themselves. Nay, if we insist further, we shall find that the first truths must have an identification to the very soul itself; for it being evident that truth or falsehood, is not in the soul but so far forth, as she doth apply herself to the external object, or to the existence of things in themselves; and that we find that the souls knowing with evidence that any thing is or hath being, implieth her knowing that herself is; (for she can not know that a thing seemeth so to her, or maketh such an impression in her, without knowing that herself is; though peradventure she may not know what herself is, but taketh herself to be no other thing then the body of the man in which she is) it is evident that the first truths which enter into the soul, to wit, that this or that seemeth so or so unto her, (and these truths no sceptike ever doubted of) are identifyed with the soul itself; seeing that an objects seeming to be such or such, is nothing else, but the soul so qualifyed.  
And by this we find, that the certainty of the first Principles, as for example of this Proposition, That the whole is bigger than the Part, will depend in a particular soul of her certainty of her own Being: for although this proposition would have a necessity in the very connexion of the terms, notwithstanding there were not in nature any whole or Part; yet this necessity would not be a necessity of Existence or of Being in the object, but a necessity of connexion, as it were of two parts of the soul: and so, if verity and falsity be not perfectly in the soul, but in comparison to actual existence, the soul would not be perfectly true, or (to say more properly) would not have the perfection of truth in her, by having or knowing this proposition, unless withal she were certain, that there were existent, an object of this Proposition: of which (as we have said) she can not be certain, without being certain of her own Being; so that in effect, the identification of other things among themselves, by which such things are known, doth come at the last to be retriued in the existence of the soul itself, and to be in the soul, by the identification of those other things unto herself.  

5 That the soul hath an infinite capacity, and consequently is immaterial.  Now then to proceed to the proof of our proposed conclusion, it is clear, that the adding of one thing to an other, doth out of the force of this addition, perfect the thing unto which the addition is made, if the advenient thing be added in such way, as the former is apt to receive it: but it is evident, that the soul is made fit by former propositions, to be identifyed to later ones; for we see that the former ones draw on, and infer the later ones: and therefore it followeth, that the more is added to the soul, the greater is her aptitude to have more, or to be more increased: and consequently, that the more is added unto her, the more may still be added; and the more capable and more earnest she is, to have more. Wherefore it can not be denied, but that since in the nature of the objects there is no impediment to hinder their being together in the soul, (as we have proved a little above) and that in her by receiving new objects into her, there is a continual increase of capacity to receive more; she hath an amplitude to knowledge absolutely infinite, in such a manner as we have above expressed.  
Now to apply to our purpose what we have gathered by this discourse, it is clear, that these two conditions. of one thing not driving out an other, and of infinity of accessions, do openly disclaim from quantity, and from matter; for we see that what hath Quantity, or is a Body, can not admit a new thing into it, unless some other thing do first go out of it, to make room for the advenient one: and as for infinitude, it breedeth a sea of contradictions, if it be but thought of in Quantity: and therefore we may conclude, that the soul, unto whom these two conditions do belong, is not quantitative or corporeal, but immaterial, and of a spiritual nature. 
6 That the opposition of contradictory propositions in the Soul doth prove her immateriality.   
The second kind of opposition, that occurreth in our thoughts, or in our soul, is of Contradictory Propositions: it hath its origine in the opposition of Being to not Being: and is when a thing is identifyed unto the soul, in such sort as we have said, that a judgement or Deeming maketh the object become as it were a limb, or part of the soul: and because the conflict of two such propositions, if they were together in the soul, would make her be something contrary to the nature of Being (if any thing can be contrary to Being) which in the schools they call ens & non ens; the impossibility of her admitting into herself two such propositions together, doth testify her firm cleaving and her fixedness to Being: and so doth confirm and bring new evidence to that argument for the soul's spirituality, which in the first Chapter of this part, we drew from the nature of Being.  
As for truth and falsehood, they spring from the same root as the last; as being qualities consequent to the opposition of affirmative and negative propositions; whereof if the one be true, the other must necessarily be false: and therefore, we need not spend time in setting down any particular considerations of these; since what we have said of the other, is appliable unto them: but it is sufficient, that we thus note them, to give the Reader occasion to reflect upon them.  
Among propositions, 
7 How propositions of eternal truth, do prove the immateriality of the soul.  there are some which Logicians do term of Eternal truth: and out of these, there are ingenious men, who imagine that the Immortality of the soul may be immediately deduced. Herein they rove not quite from the mark; though withal I must needs say, they do not directly hit it. To understand the utmost that may be inferred out of such propositions, we may note two conditions in them: the first is, that generally these propositions are universal ones; and thereby have that force to convince the spirituality of the soul, which we have explicated and showed to belong unto universal terms: the second is, that in these propositions, there is a necessity of connexion between their terms; such an one, or at the least very like thereunto, as we explicated in those propositions, which bear their evidence plain in their very terms. And out of this we may draw an other argument for the spirituality of the soul: for we see that all corporeal agents and patients, are defectible and contingent; that is to say, sometimes, or (if you will) most times, they attain their effect; but withal, sometimes (be it never so seldom) they miss of it: and accordingly, it happeneth sometimes that our eyes, our ears, our touch, and the rest of our senses are deceived; though for the most part, they give us true informations of what they converse with: but these propositions of eternal verity do never fail: they have in themselves an indefectibility insuperable; and consequently, they give evidence that the soul's nature is of a higher degree of constancy and certainty, than what falleth within the compass of bodies: and is of a nobler and different strain, from all corporeal things: for this certainty is entailed upon such propositions by the force of Being; which is the proper object of the soul: and they have their Being, as limbs and parts of the soul.  
As for the term of Eternal verity, it is not to be taken positively, as if these propositions, or their objects, had any true eternity or perseverance, without beginning or ending: but only negatively; that is, that there can be no time, in which they are false: and therefore, we can not out of their having such a kind of Eternity belonging to them, argue a capacity of infinite time or duration in our soul that comprehendeth them.   

THE SEVENTH CHAPTER. That our discoursing doth prove our soul to be incorporeal.  

1 That in discoursing the soul containeth more in it at the same time than is in the fantasy, which proveth her to be immaterial.  Having thus run over those proofs for the immateriality of our soul, which arise out of her manner of working when she judgeth; in the next place, we are to inquire what others, her manner of discoursing will afford us. We are sure, that since our discourse is composed of judgements, and of single apprehensions, it can not choose but furnish us with all those pregnant arguments, that we drew from them. But that will not serve our turn: we look after new evidence; and we shall see it will give it us with full hands. It consisteth in this: that when we discourse, we may easily perceive there is more at one time in our mind, than we can discover to be in our fantasy; for we find, that in our fantasy, as one proposition cometh, an other is gone: and although they that are gone, seem to be ready at a call, yet they are not in presence; as being things which consist in motion, and that require place; and therefore the one iustleth the other out of the place it possessed. But if it fared in like manner in our inward soul, we could never attain unto knowledge: for it is manifest, that our soul is not assured of a conclusion, but by her seeing the premises: if then the premises be taken away, the conclusion that resteth upon them, falleth to the ground: but they are taken away, if they be out of our mind: therefore, when our understanding yieldeth its assent to a conclusion, it must of necessity have the premises still in it.  
But we must not rest here; this consideration will carry us on a wondrous deal further: we know, that who so goeth to frame a new demonstration in any subject, must be certain he taketh nothing contrary to what he hath learned in many books: likewise, that who will make a latin verse, or readeth a Poem, knoweth there is nothing in all that Poem contrary to his Prosodia: do we not then manifestly perceive a certain remainder of all these in his soul? The like is in all arts: in which he that goeth about any work according to art, showeth he hath in his head all the rules of that art, though he do not distinctly remember them, or call them to mind whiles he worketh: for if he have them not, how doth he work by them? Since than it is clear that he thinketh not of them at that time, it is as clear, that more is in his soul at one time, then is in his fantasy, or then can be there by material bodies, (which we have showed is the way, whereby all things come into the fantasy) although it be the nimblest and the subtlest Agent of all corporeal things whatsoever.  
An other consideration whereby to evince the immateriality of the soul, 
2 That the nature of discourse doth prove the soul to be ordered to infinite knowledge, and consequently to be immaterial.  concerneth the proceeding of syllogisms by links, fastened one to an other: whence we may take notice, that every one of them is a step to an other: and consequently, it is manifest that according to the nature of the soul, they must be all together in her: since, if any one were absent, all the rest that followed and depended upon that one, would have no grounding, nor fixedness in the soul. Now if to this we add, that what is to be known, is absolutely and liquidly infinite, there can not be brought or expected a more pregnant and home witness of our soul's spirituality: it following out of these grounds, that the soul by its nature, is not only capable of, but is expressly ordered to an infinite knowledge of infinite objects all together; for these two, finite and infinite science, are so vastly different from one an other, that if the same subject be capable of both, it must of necessity be ordered to infinite, as to its chiefest act and end: and thus out of capacity in this subject, its being ordered is well inferred; though in other matters peradventure the consequence may not be good. And accordingly, who looketh into Geometry, Arithmetic, Logic, or even nature itself, will evidently see that the objects of knowledge, are every way, and in every science, multiplyable without end.  
Neither aught this to be neglected, 
3 That the most natural objects of the soul are immaterial, and consequently the soul herself in such.  that a great part of the soul's objects, and indeed of those that are most natural to her, is above the capacity, and out of the reach of material things. All Metaphysikes abstract from quantity: the investigation of God, of Angels, of the soul itself, either concludeth immateriality, or at the least worketh about it. What shall I say of Logical notions, of those which are called the second intentions; about which there is so much business, both in the schools and in the world? It is sufficient that we have already expressed, how all our notions are respective. But in particular the motives of humane actions are very abstracted considerations: as for example, hope of things to come, memory of things passed, virtue, vice, honour, shame, and the like. To these let us add, that when we teach or explicate any thing to ignorant persons, we must frame our own apprehensions to their capacity, and we must speak such things as they may comprehend: which capacity or extent of comprehension we can not see not perceive by any sense, but we judge it merely by our Reason, and by our understanding. Wherefore, seeing that our operation is mainly and chiefly on and by such motives, as are not liable to material principles and compositions, it is evident, that the springhead from whence such an operation floweth, must also be immaterial and incorporeal.  
I am not ignorant, that this argument useth to be answered by urging, that the soul likewise knoweth Deafness, dumbness, Blindness, and such other notions of Nothings; and yet is not from thence inferred to be nothing▪ it conceiveth God and Eternity; and yet it is neither from itself, as God is, nor eternal. In like manner (say they) it may know incorporeal things, and yet not be therefore itself incorporeal. To this I reply, first with wishing them not to mistake me, but to give my argument its full force and weight: for there is a very great difference between the knowing of a thing, in a strained, toilsome, and confuled manner, and the having a thing for its ordinary matter and subject of negotiation: this argueth connaturality between the soul and what it is in such sort conversant about; but that doth not. Now, what is inferred out of whole sciences and arts, concerneth a main stock of the soul's business, and not some extraordinary virtue or power she hath.  
But to come up close to the answer: I say, that if we being throughly acquainted with material things, can find that it is not in the possibility of any such to be the likeness of an immaterial thing; and from thence do infer that our soul, for being fraught with immaterial notions, is not material; our conclusion is well collected, and a very good one; for the premises out of which we do gather it, are within our kenning; and therefore if there were any defect in the consequence, we should easily perceive it. Whence it appeareth clearly, that there is no parity between the deduction of our conclusion, and that other which the objection urgeth, that our soul, because it can know eternal things, is also eternal; for eternity is a thing beyond our comprehension: and therefore it ought not be expected at our hands, that we should be able to give an account where the brack is. And to say the truth, if knowledge be taken properly, we do not know eternity; however by supernatural helps we may come to know it: but in that case, the helps are likely to be proportionable to the effect. Neither are negations properly known, seeing there is nothing to be known of them. And thus we see that these objections do proceed from the aequivocation of the word knowledge; sometimes used properly, othertimes applied abusively.   

THE EIGHT CHAPTER. Containing proofs out of our manner of proceeding to action, that our soul is incorporeal.  

1 That the souls being a power to order things proveth her to be immaterial.  I Doubt not but what we have already said, hath sufficiently convinced our souls being immaterial, unto whomsoever is able to penetrate the force of the arguments we have brought for proof thereof, and will take the pains to consider them duly: (which must be done, by serious and continued reflection, and not by cursary reading, or by interrupted attempts) yet since we have still a whole field of proofs untouched, and that in so important a matter, no evidence can be too clear, nor any pains be accounted lost, that may redouble the light, although it shine already bright enough to discern what we seek; we will make up the concert of unanimous testimonies to this already established truth, by adding those arguments we shall collect out of the manner of our souls proceeding to action, unto the others we have drawn from our observations upon her apprehensions, her judgements, and her discourses.  
Looking then into this matter: the first consideration we meet withal is, that our understanding is in his own nature an orderer; and that his proper work is to rank and put things in order: for if we reflect upon the works and arts of men, as, a good life, a commonwealth, an army, a house, a garden, all artefactes; what are th●y, but compositions of well ordered parts? And in every kind, we see that he is the Master, and the Architect, and is a accounted the wisest, and to have the best understanding, who can best, or most, or further than his fellows▪ set things in order. If then to this we join, that quantity is a thing whose nature consisteth in a capacity of having parts and multitude, and consequently is the subject of ordering and ranking; doth it not evidently follow, that our soul, compared to the whole mass of bodies, and to the very nature of corporeity or quantity, is as a proper agent to its proper matter to work upon? Which if it be, it must necessarily be of a nobler strain, and of a different and higher nature than it; and consequently, can not be a body, or be composed of Quantity: for had matter in itself, what it expecteth and requireth from the agent, it would not need the agents help, but of itself it were fit to be an Agent. Wherefore if the nature of corporeity, or of body, in its full latitude, be to be ordered, it followeth that the thing whose nature is to be an orderer, must as it is such, be not a body, but of a superior nature, and exceeding a Body: which we express by calling it a spiritual thing.  
Well then, 
2 That the souls being able to move without being moved, doth prove her to be immaterial.  if the soul be an orderer, two things belong necessarily unto her: the one is, that she have this order within herself, the other is, that she have power to communicate it unto such things, as are to be ordered. The first she hath by science, of which enough already hath been said towards proving our intent. Next, that her nature is communicative of this order, is evident out of her action and manner of working. But whether of herself she be thus communicative, or be so by her conjunction to the body she informeth, appeareth not from thence. But where experience falleth short, reason supplieth, and showeth us that of her own nature she is communicative of order; for seeing that her action is an ordering, and that in this line there are but two sorts of things in the world, namely, such as do order, and such as are to be ordered▪ it is manifest, that the action must by nature and in the universal consideration of it, begin from the orderer (in whom order hath its life and subsistence) and not from that which is to receive it: then, sithence ordering is motion, it followeth evidently, that the soul is a mover and a beginner of motion.  
But since we may conceive two sorts of moovers; the one when the agent is moved to move; the other, when of itself it beginneth ●he motion without being moved; we are to inquire, unto which of these two the soul belongeth. But to apprehend the question rightly, we will illustrate it by an example: let us suppose that some action is fit to begin at ten of the clock: now we may imagine an agent to begin this action in two different manners; the one, that the clock striking ten, breedeth or stirreth somewhat in him, from whence this action followeth▪ the other manner is, that the agent may of his own nature, have such an actual comprehension or decurrence of time within himself, as that without receiving any warning from abroad, but as though he moved and ordered the clock as well as his own instruments, he may of himself be fit and ready, just at that hour to begin that action; not as if the clock told him what hour it is, but as if he by governing the clock, made that hour to be, as well as he causeth the action to begin at that hour. In the first of these manners, the agent is moved to move: but in the second, he moveth of himself, without being moved by any thing else. And in this second way, our soul of her own nature communicateth herself to quantitative things, and giveth them motion: which followeth out of what we have already proved; that a soul, in her own nature, is the subject of an infinite knowledge, and therefore is capable of having such a general comprehension, as well of time, and of the course of all other things, as of the particular action he is to do; and consequently, standeth not in need of a Monitor without her, to direct her when to begin.  
If then it be an imprevaricable law with all bodies, that none whatsoever can move unless it be moved by an other; it followeth, that the soul which moveth, without being stirred or excitated by any thing else, is of a higher race than they; and consequently is immaterial and void of Quantity. But let me not be mistaken in what I come from saying; as though my meaning were, that the soul exerciseth this way of moving herself, and of ordering her actions, whiles she is in the body: for how can she; seeing she is never endued with complete knowledge requisite for any action, never fully comprehending all the circumstances of it? But what I intent, is that the nature of the soul, considered in itself, is such, as hath a capacity and may reach to this manner of working, (whence I infer that she is not a body but a spirit) without determining, whether she work thus in the body, or out of it: 
3 That the souls proceeding to action with an universality, and indifferency doth prove the same.  that enquiry belongeth not to this place; it will follow by and by.  
But for the present, having considered unto what kind of working, the nature of the soul in abstract, is capable of attaining; we will conclude this Chapter with reflecting upon those actions of hers, which fall daily under our remark, as being exercised in the body. In all of them we may observe, that she proceedeth with a certain universality and indifferency, beyond the practice of all other creatures whatsoever: for example, if a man be spoken to, or asked of a hundred several things that he never thought of before in all his life, he will immediately shape pertinent replies, to all that is said, and return fitting answers to every question: as, Whither such a man goeth? How long this staff is? What colour that man's clothes are of? &c: to all which, and to as many things more as you will (so they be within the compass of his knowledge) he strait answereth differently, and to the purpose. Whence it is manifest, that his answers do not proceed upon set gimals or strings, whereof one being struck, it moveth the rest in a set order, (which we have showed, is the course in all actions done by beasts) but out of a principle within him, which of itself is indifferent to all things; and therefore can readily apply itself to the answer, according as by the question it is moved: and the like may be observed in his actions; which he varyeth according to the occasions presented.  
I remember how Sir Philip Sidney (the Phoenix of the age he lived in, and the glory of our nation, and the pattern to posterity of a complete, a gallant, and a perfect gentleman) aptly calleth our hands, the instruments of instruments; from Aristotle, who termeth them Organa organorum, or universal instruments, fitly moulded to be employed in any service; whereas nature hath to all other creatures appropriated their instruments to determinate actions, but to man, she hath (in these) given such, as might be applied to any kind of work whatsoever: and accordingly we see, that the same kind of bird, still buildeth her nest and breedeth her young ones, in the same way, without any the least variance at all: but men do build their houses as they please, sometimes upon hills, sometimes in vales, sometimes under the earth, and sometimes upon the tops of trees: and the manners of breeding or instructing their children, are as divers, as the customs of nations and towns: and in all other actions, our Masters note it for a property peculiar to man, that he useth to arrive unto the same end by divers means; as to transport ourselves to some place we would go unto, either by water, or by horse, or by coach, or by litter, as we please: whereas we see no such variety in like actions of other living creatures.  
All which being so, we may conclude, that the souls proceeding either to answers, or to action, argueth clearly that she hath within herself such an indifferency, as is joined with a means to determine this indifferency: the contrary whereof we see in all corporeal engines; for they have every step in the whole course of their ways, chalked out unto them, by their very framing, (as hath been amply declared in the first Treatise) and have the determination of their work, from end to end set down, and given them by their artificier and maker: and therefore it is most evident, that the soul can not be a thing composed or framed of material and quantitative parts, seeing she hath not her ways set down unto her, but frameth them of herself, according to the accidents that occur.  

4 That the quiet proceeding of reason doth prove the same.  The same nature of the soul, discovereth itself in the quiet proceeding of Reason, when it worketh with greatest strength and vigour; as well knowing, that its efficaciousness consisteth not in the multitude of parts, which Passion breedeth, but in the well ordering of those it already hath under its command. Whereas the strength of Quantity, and the increase of its strength, consisteth in the multitude of its parts: as will evidently appear to whom shall consider this point deeply.  

5 A conclusion of what hath been said hitherto in this second Treatise.  Thus we have in a summary manner gone through all the operations of those soul, which in the beginning of this latter Treatise, we heaped together as materials, wherewith to raise an immaterial and spiritual building. Neither, I hope, will our Reader be offended with us, for being more succinct and concise in all our discourse concerning our soul, then where we delivered the doctrine of Bodies: for the difficultness of this subject, and the nicety required to the expressing our conceptions concerning it, wherein (as the Proverb is) a hair is to be cloven, would not allow us that liberty of ranging about, as when we treated of Bodies. What occurreth among them, may be illustrated by examples within their own orb, and of their own pitch; but to desplay the operations of a soul, we can find no instances that are able to reach them; they would rather embroile and darken them: for the exact propriety of words, must be strictly and rigorously observed in them: and the Reader shall penetrate more into the nature and depth of them, by serious meditation and reflection upon the hintes we have here given, (efficacious enough, I hope, to excite those thoughts he should have for this purpose, and to steer them the right way) then by much and voluminous reading, or by hearing long and polished discourses of this subject.  
For my part, if what I have here said, should to any man appear not sufficient to convince that our soul is of a spiritual and far different nature, from all such things as in our first Treatise we have discoursed vpon, and taken for the heads and most general kinds of Bodies, (unto which all other particular ones, and their motions may be reduced) I shall become a suitor to him, in entreating him to take this subject into his handling, where it beginneth to be unwieldy for mine, and to declare unto us, upon the principles we have settled in the first Treatise, and upon considering the nature of a body (which is the first of all our notions) how these particulars we have reflected upon in man's actions, can be drawn out of them; for I can find no possible means to link them together: a vast and impenetrable Ocean, lieth between the discoveries we have made on each side of its shores; which forbiddeth all commerce between them; at the least, on the dark body's side, which hath not wings to soar into the region of Intellectual light. By those principles, we have traced out the course and progress of all operations belonging to sense; and how beasts do or may perform all their actions, even to their most refined and subtlest operations: but beyond them, we have not been able to carry these grounds, nor they us. Let him then take the pains to show us, by what figures, by what first qualities, by what mixtion of rare and dense parts, an universal apprehension, an evident judgement, a legitimate consequence is made: and so of the like; as, of a man's determination of himself to answer pertinently any question: of his choosing this way before that; etc. Which if he can do (as I am sure he can not) I shall allow it to be reason, and not obstinacy, that worketh in his mind, and carrieth him against our doctrine: but if he can not, and that there is no appearance nor possibility (as indeed there is not) that these actions can be effected by the ordering of material parts, and yet he will be still unsatisfyed, without being able to tell why, (for he will be unwilling to acknowledge, that these abstracted speculations, do not sink into him, and that nothing can convince him, but what his senses may be judges of, and that he may handle, and turn on every side like a brick or a tile) and will be still importune with cavillous scrupules, and wild doubts, that in truth, and at the bottom do signify nothing, we will leave him to meditate at his leisure upon what we have said; whiles we proceed on to what followeth out of this great principle, That our soul is incorporeal and spiritual.   

THE NINTH CHAPTER. That our soul is a Substance, and Immortal.  
Having concluded that our soul is immaterial and indivisible; 
1 That Man's Soul is a substance.  to proceed one step further, it can not be denied, but that it is either a substance or an accident; if the later, it must be of the nature of the substance whose accident it is; for so we see all accidents are: but in man when his soul is excluded, there is no spiritual substance at all, whereof we have any notice: and therefore if it be an accident, it must be a corporeal accident, or some accident of a body; as some figure, temperature, harmony, or the like: and consequently, it must be divisible: but this is contrary to what is proved in the former Chapters: and therefore it can not be a corporeal accident. Neither can it be a spiritual accident: for unto what spiritual substance should it belong, when as nothing in man can be suspected to be spiritual, but itself. Seeing then that it can be no accident, a substance it must be, and must have its Existence or Being in itself.  
Here we have passed the Rubiton of experimental knowledge: 
2 That man is compounded of some other substance besides his body.  we are now out of the bounds that experience hath any jurisdiction over: and from henceforth, we must in all our searches and conclusions rely only upon the single evidence of Reason. And even this last conclusion we have been fain to deduce out of the force of abstracted reasoning upon what we had gathered before; not by immediate reflection upon some action we observe proceeding from a man: yet withal, nature flasheth out by a direct beam, some little glimmering of the verity of it, to the eye of Reason that is within us: for as when we see a clock move, or a mill, or any thing that goeth by many wheels, if we mark that there are two contrary motions, in two divers parts of it, we can not think that those contrary motions, do belong to one and the same continued body, but shall presently conclude, that there must be in that engine two several bodies compacted together; so in man, though his body be the first mover that appeareth unto us, yet seeing that in his actions, some effects do show themselves, which it is impossible should proceed from a body, it is evident, that in him there is some other thing besides that one which we see: and consequently we may conclude, that he is composed of a body and of somewhat else that is not a body: which somewhat else, being the spring from whence those actions flow, that are of a different strain from them that are derived from the body, must necessarily be a spiritual substance.  

3 That the soul doth subsist of itself independently of the body.  But whiles we are examining, how far our present considerations, and short discourses may carry us, as it were experimentally to confirm this truth, we must not omit what Auicenna in his book de Anima & Almahad, and Monsieur des Cartes in his Method, do press upon the same occasion. Thus they say, or to like purpose: if I cast with myself, who I am that walk, or speak, or think; or order any thing; my reason will answer me, that although my legs or tongue were gone, and that I could no longer walk or speak, yet were not I gone, and I should know and see with my understanding, that I were still the very same thing, the same Ego as before. The same as of my tongue or legs, would reason tell me of my eyes, my ears, my smelling, tasting, and feeling, either all of them together, or every one of them single, that were they all gone, still should I remain: As when in a dream, (where I use none of all these) I both am, and know myself to be Reason will tell me also, that although I were not nourished, so I were not wasted, (which for the drift of the argument may be supposed) yet still I should continue in Being. Whence it would appear, that my hart, liver, lnges, kidneys, stomach, mouth, and what other parts of me soever, that serve for the nourishment of my body, might be severed from me, and yet I remain what I am. Nay, if all the beautiful and airy phantasms, which fly about so nimbly in our brain, be nothing else but signs unto in our soul, of what is without us; it is evident, that though peradventure she would not without their service, exercise that which by error we missename Thinking; yet the very same soul and thinker might be without them all: and consequently, without brain also; seeing that our brain is but the playhouse and scene, where all these faery masks are acted: so that in conclusion Reason assureth us, that when all body is abstracted in us, there still remaineth a substance, a thinker, an Ego, or I, that in itself is no whitt diminished, by being (as I may say) stripped out of the case it was enclosed in.  
And now I hope the intelligent Reader will conceive I have performed my promise, 
4 Two other arguments to prove the same: one positive, the other negative.  and have showed the soul of man to be an Immortal substance: for since it is a substance, it hath a Being; and since it is an immaterial substance, it hath a Being of its own force; without needing a consort body, to help it to sustain its Existence: for to be a substance, is to be the subject of Existence; and consequently, to be an immaterial substance, is to be a subject capable of Existence, without the help of matter or of Quantity. It can not therefore be required of me, to use any further industry, to prove such a soul to be immortal: but who will contradict her being so, is obliged to show that she is mortal: for it followeth in reason, that she will keep her being, unless by some force she be bereaved of it; it being a rule, that whosoever putteth a thing to be, is not bound, for the continuation of that things being, to prove that it is not changed: but on the other side, he that averreth it is changed, is bound to bring in his evidence of a sufficient cause to change it: for to have a thing remain, is natures own dictamen, and followeth out of the causes which gave it being: but to make an alteration, supposeth a change in the causes; and therefore the obligation of proof lieth on that side.  
Nevertheless, 
5 The same is proved because the soul can not be obnoxious to the cause of mortality.  to give satisfaction to those, who are earnest to see every article positively proved, we will make that part too our Province. Let us then remember, that Immortality signifieth a negation, or a not having of Mortality: and that a positive term, is required to express a change by; since nature teacheth us, that whatsoever is, will remain with the Being it hath▪ unless it be forced out of it: if then we show, that Man's soul hath not those grounds in her, which maketh all things we see, to be mortal; we must be allowed to have acquitted ourselves of the charge, of proving her Immortal. For this end, let us look round about us, and inquire of all the things we meet with, by what means they are changed, and come to a period, and are no more. The pure elements will tell you, that they have their change, by rarefaction and condensation, and no otherwise: mixed bodies, by alteration of their mixture: small bodies, by the activity of the Elements working upon them; and by the means of rarefaction and condensation, entering into their very constitution, and breeding an other temperament, by separation of some of their parts, and in their stead mingling others. plants, and trees, and other living creatures will tell you, that their nourishment, being insinuated through their whole bodies, by subtle pores, and blind passages, if they either be stopped by any accident, or else be filled with bad nourishment, the mixture of the whole faileth of itself, and they come to die. Those things which are violently destroyed, we see are made away, for the most part by division; so fire by division destroyeth all that cometh in its way; so living creatures are destroyed, by their parting of their blood from their flesh, or of one member from an other, or by the evaporation or extinction of their natural heat. In fine, we are sure that all things, which within our knowledge lose the it Being, do so by reason of their Quantity; which by division, or by rarefaction, and compression, gaineth some new temperature, that doth not consist with their former temper. After these premises, I need say no more: the conclusion displayeth itself readily and plainly, without any further trouble; for if our labour hath been hitherto, to show that our soul is indivisible, and that her operations are such as admit not quantitative parts in her; it is clear, that she can not be mortal, by any of those ways, whereby we see things round about us to perish.  
The like argument we may frame out of local motion; for seeing that all the alterative actions we are acquainted withal, be performed by local motion, (as is delivered, both in gross, and by detaile, in our first Treatise) and that Aristotle, and all understanding Philosophers do agree, there can be no local motion in an indivisible thing, (the reason whereof is evident, to whomsoever reflecteth upon the nature of Place, and of local motion) it is manifest, that there can be no motion to hurt the soul, since she is concluded to be indivisible.  

6 The same is proved because the soul hath no contrary.  The common argument likewise used in this matter, amounteth to the same effect: to wit, that since things are destroyed only by their contraries; that thing which hath no contrary, is not subject to destruction: (which Principle both Reason and experience, do every where confirm:) but a humane soul is not subject to contrariety: and therefore such ●n one can not be destroyed. The truth of the assumption, may be known two ways: first, because all the contrarieties that are found within our cognisance, do arise out of the primary opposition of Rarity and Density; from which the soul being absolutely free, she likewise is so, from all that groweth out of that root: and secondly, we may be sure that our soul can receive no harm from contrariety; since all contraries are so far from hurting her, as contrary wise, the one helpeth her in the contemplation of the other: and as for contradiction in thoughts, which at different times our soul is capable of admitting, experience teacheth us, that such thoughts do change in her, without any prejudice to her substance; they being accidents, and having their contrariety only betwixt themselves within her, but no opposition at all to her; which only is the contrariety that may have power to harm her: and therefore, whether soever of such contrary thoughts be in the soul, pertaineth no more to her subsistence, than it doth to the subsistence of a body, 
7 The same is proved from the end for which the soul was created.  whether it be here or there, on the right hand, or on the left.  
And thus I conceive my task is performed; and that I am discharged of my undertaking to show the soul's Immortality, which importeth no more, then to show, that the causes of other things mortality, do not reach her. Yet being well persuaded, that my reader will not be offended with the addition of any new light, in this dark subject; I will strive to discover (if it be possible) some positive proof, or guess, out of the property and nature of the soul itself, why she must remain, and ●nioy an other life after this. To this end, let us cast our eye back, upon what hath been already said, concerning her nature. We found that truth is the natural perfection of Man's soul; and that she can not be assured of truth naturally, otherwise then by evidence: and therefore it is manifest, that evidence of truth, is the full complete perfection, at which the soul doth aim. We found also, that the soul is capable of an absolute infinity of truth or evidence. To these two, we will add only one thing more, which of itself is past question, and therefore needeth no proof; and then we will deduce our conclusion: and this is, that in a man his soul is a far nobler, and perfecter part of him, than his body: and therefore, by the rules of nature and of wisdom, his body was made for his soul, and not his soul finally for his body.  
These grounds being thus laid, let us examine, whether our soul doth in this life arrive to the end she was ordained for, or no: and if she do not then it must follow of necessity, that our body was made but for a passage, by which our soul should be ferried over into that state, where she is to attain unto that end, for which her nature is framed and fitted: the great skill, and artifice of nature, showing and assuring us, that she never faileth of compassing her end, even in her meanest works: and therefore without doubt would not break her course in her greatest: whereof man is absolutely the head and chief, among all those that we are acquainted with. Now, what the end is, unto which our soul doth aim, is evident; since the perfection of every thing, is the end for which it is made: the perfection then, and end of the soul being evidence; and she being capable of infinite evidence; let us inquire, whether in this life she may compass it or no. To determine this question, let us compare infinite evidence, to that evidence, which the greatest and most knowing man that ever lived, hath acquired by the work of nature alone; or to that evidence, which by aim we may imagine is possible ever to happen unto any one man to arrive unto: and balancing them well together, let us judge whether all that any man can know here, is not in respect of what a man's soul is capable of, to be styled as nothing, and deserveth not the name of evidence, nor to be accounted of that nature: and if our sentence do conclude upon this, let us acknowledge that our soul arriveth not to her perfection, nor enjoyeth her end, in this world; and therefore, must have infaillibly an other habitation in the next world, unto which nature doth intend her. Experience teacheth us, that we can not fully comprehend any one of nature's works: and those Philosophers, who in a disciplinable way search into nature, (and therefore are called Mathematicians) after they have written large volumes of some very slender subject, do ever find, that hay have left untouched, an endless abyss of knowledge, for whomsoevershall please to build upon their foundations: and that they can never arrive near saying all that may be said of that subject, though they have said never so much of it. We may not then make difficulty to believe, that the wisest and learnedest men in the world, have reason to profess with the father of Philosophers, that indeed they know nothing▪ And if so, how far are they from that happiness and perfection, which consisteth in knowing all things? Of which full sea, we nevertheless find even in this low ebb, that our soul is a channel capable; and is framed a fit vessel and instrument to receive it, when the tide shall come in upon it: which we are sure it can not do, until the banks of our body which hinder it, be broken down.  

8 The same is proved because she can move without being moved.  This last consideration, without doubt, hath added no small corroboration to our former proofs; which are so numerous and so clear, as peradventure it may appear superfluous, to say any more to this point: since one convincing argument establisheth the verity of a conclusion, as efficaciously as a hundred: and therefore Mathematicians use but one single proof, in all their propositions; after which other supernumerary ones, would be but tedious Nevertheless▪ since all the several ways, by which we may look into the nature of our soul (the importantest subject we can busy our thoughts upon) can not fail of being pleasing and delightful to us, we must not omit to reflect a little upon that great property of our soul, by which she is able to move and to work, without herself being moved or touched. Unto which adding, that all life consisteth in motion, and that all motion of bodies cometh from some other thing without them; we may evidently conclude, that our soul, who can move without receiving her motion from abread, hath in herself a spring of life; for the which she is not beholding (as bodies are) to some extrinsecall cause, of a nature like unto her; but only to him, who gave her to Be what she is. But if she have such a spring of life within her, it were unreasonable to imagine, that she died upon the occasion of the death of an other thing, that exerciseth no action of life, but as it is caused by an other.  

9 The same is proved from her manner of operation which is grounded in being.  Neither may we neglect that ordinary consideration, which taketh notice, that our soul maketh use of propositions of eternal truth; which we have above produced, among our proofs for her being of a spiritual nature; and shall now employ it for the proving her Immortal: by considering, that the notion of Being, which settleth these propositions so, as they fear no mutation or shaking by time, is the very root of the soul; and that which giveth her her nature; and which showeth itself in all her operations: so that, if from Being, arriveth unto these propositions, to fear no time; the like must of necessity betid also the substance of the soul. And thus we see, that her nature is out of the reach of time: that she can comprehend time, and set it limits: and that she can think of things beyond it, and cast about for them. All which are clear testimonies, that she is free and secure from the all devouring and destroying tyranny of that Saturniall Conqueror of the whole world of matter and of Bodies, whose servant is death.  
After all these proofs drawn from the nature of the soul itself, 
10 Lastly it is proved from the science of Morality, the principles whereof would be destroyed if the soul were mortal.  every one of them of force to convince her immortality, I must crave leave to add one consideration more, though it seemeth to belong unto an others harvest, namely to the science of Morals: and it is, that the position of Mortality in the soul, taketh away all morality, and changeth men into beasts; by taking away the ground of all difference in those things, which are to govern our actions. For supposing that the soul dyeth with the body; and seeing that man hath a comprehension or notion of time without end; it is evident, that the span of this life, must needs appear contemptible unto him, that well considereth and weigheth it against the other infinite duration: and by consequence, all the goods, and evils which are parts of this life, must needs become as despicable and inconsiderable: so that better or worse in this life, hath not any appearance of difference between them; at the least, not enough to make him labour with pain to compass the one, and eschew the other, and for that end, to cross his present inclination in any thing, and engage himself in any the least difficult task: and so it would ensue, that if to an understanding man, some course or action were proposed unto him, as better than that he were going about, or for the instant had a mind unto▪ he would relish it, as a great merchant, or a Banker would do, who dealing for Millions, one should press him with earnestness, to make him change his resolved course, for the gain of a farthing more this way then the other; which being inconsiderable, he would not trouble his head with it, nor stop at what he was in hand with. In like manner, whosoever is persuaded, that for an infinity of time he shall be nothing, and without sense of all things, he scorneth for this little twinkling of his life, to take any present pains, to be in the next moment well, or to avoid being ill; since in this case, dying is a secure remedy to any present evil; and he is as ready to die now, as a hundred years hence; nor can he estime the loss of a hundred years, to be a matter of moment: and therefore he will, without any further guidance or discourse, betake himself to do whatsoever his present inclination beareth him to with most facility; vpon this resolution, that if any thing cross him, he will presently forgo his life, as a trifle not worth the keeping: and thus, neither virtue, nor honour, nor more pleasure than what at the present tickleth him, doth fall into his account: which is the overthrow of the whole body of Morality, that is of man's action and nature. But all they who look into sciences, do cross that for an erroneous and absurd position, which taketh away the Principles of any science: and consequently, the position of the soul's Mortality, is to be esteemed such. There remaineth yet one consideration more, and peradventure more important, than any we have yet mentioned, to convince the soul's immortality: which is, that spiritual things are in a state of Being. But we shall not be able to declare this, until we have proceeded a little further.   

THE TENTH CHAPTER. Declaring what the soul of a man, separated from his body, is: and of her knowledge and manner of working.  

1 That the soul is one simple knowing act which is a pure substance and nothing but substance.  Unhappy man! how long wilt thou be inquisitive and curious to thine own peril? Hast thou not already paid too dear, for thy knowing more than thy share? Or hast thou not heard, that who will pry into majesty, shall be oppressed by the glory of it? Some are so curious (shall I say) or so ignorant, as to demand, what a humane soul will be, after she is delivered from her body: and unless they may see a picture of her, and have whereby to fancy her, they will not be persuaded, but that all are dreams, which our former discourses have concluded: as if he, who findeth himself dazzled with looking upon the sun, had reason to complain of that glorious body, and not of his own weak eyes, that can not entertain so resplendent a light.  
Wherefore to frame some conceit of a separated soul, I will endeavour for their satisfaction, to say some what of her future state. Let us then first consider what a Thought is. (I do not mean, that corporeal spirit, which beateth at our common sense; but that which is within, in the inward soul, whose nature we find by discourse and effects, though we can not see it in itself.) To this purpose we may observe, that if we are to discourse, or to do any thing, we are guided the right way in that subject we have in hand, by a multitude of particular thoughts; which are all of them terminated in that discourse or action: and consequently, every act of our mind, is as it were an actual rule or direction, for some part of such discourse or action: so that we may conceive a complete thought (compounded of many particular ones) to be a thing, that ordereth one entire discourse or action of our life.  
A thought being thus described, let us in the next place try, if we can make an apprehension, what a science or an art is: as, what the science of Astronomy is; or what the art of playing on the Organs is, when the Astronomer thinketh not of the motions of the heavens, nor the Organist of playing on his instrument: which science and art, do nevertheless even then reside in the Astronomer, and in the Organist▪ and we find, that these are but the resultes of many former complete thoughts; as being those very thoughts in remainder; whatsoever this may signify.  
Lastly, let us conceive (if we can) a power or capacity to Being: unto which capacity, if any Being be brought, that it is unseperably glued and riveted unto it, by its very being a Being: and if any two things be brought unto it, by the virtue of one Being, common to both those things, that both of them, by this one being, do become one betwixt themselves, and with this capacity; and that so there is no end or period of this addition of things, by the mediation of Being; but that by links and rings, all the things that are in the world, may hang together betwixt themselves, and to this Power▪ if all of them may be brought unto it by the glue and virtue of being: in such sort as we have formerly declared, passeth in the soul.  
Now let us put this together, and make up such a thing, as groweth out of the capacity to Being, thus actuated and cleaving to all things that any way have being; and we shall see, that it becometh a whole entire world, ordered and clinging together with as great strength and necessity, as can proceed from the nature of Being, and of contradiction: and our reason will tell us, that such a thing, if it be active, can frame a world, such an one as we live in, and are a small parcel of, if it have matter to work upon; and can order whatsoever hath Being, any way that it is capable of being ordered, to do by it, and to make of it, whatsoever can be done by, and made of such matter.  
All these conceptions (especially by the assistance of the last) may serve a little to shadow out a perfect soul: which is, a knowledge, an art, a rule, a direction, of all things: and all this by being all things, in a degree and strain, proper and peculiar to itself: and an unperfect soul, is a participation of this Idea: that is, a knowledge, a rule, and a direction, for as much as it is, and as it attaineth unto. Now as in our thoughts, it is the corporeal part only which maketh a noise, and a show outwardly, but the spiritual thought, is no otherwise perceived then in its effect, in ordering the bodily acts; in like sort, we must not conceive this knowledge to be a motion; but merely to be a thing or Being, out of which the ordering and moving of other things doth flow; itself remaining fixed and immoveable: and because all that is joined unto it, is there riveted by Being, or identification; and that when one thing is an other, the other is again it; it is impossible that one should exceed the other, and be any thing that is not it: and therefore, in the soul there can be no parts, no accidents, no additions, no appendances, nothing that sticketh to it and is not it: but whatsoever is in her, is soul; and the soul, is all that which is within her; so that all that is of her, and all that belongeth unto her, is nothing but one pure simple substance, peradventure Metaphysically, or formally divisible; (in such sort as we have explicated in the first Treatise, of the divisibility between quantity and substance) but not quantitatively, as bodies are divisible. In fine, substance it is, and nothing but substance; all that is in it, being joined and imped into it, by the very nature of Being, which maketh substance. This then, is the substantial conceit of a humane soul stripped of her body.  
Now, to conceive what proprieties this substance is furnished with; let us reflect upon the notions we frame of things, 
2 That a separated soul is in no place, and yet is not absent from any place.  when we consider them in common: as when we think of a man, of bread, of some particular virtue, of a vice, or of whatsoever else; and let us note, how in such, our discourse determineth no place, nor time: nay, if it should, it would mar the discourse; as Logicians show, when they teach us, that scientifical syllogisms can not be made without universal propositions: so that we see, unless these things be stripped from Place and Time, they are not according to our meaning: and yet nevertheless, we give them both the name, and the nature of a Thing, or of a substance, or of a living Thing, or of whatsoever else may by our manner of conceiving or endeavours, be freed from the subjection of time and Place. Thus than we plainly see, that it is a very different thing, to be, and to be in a Place: and therefore, out of a Things being in no Place, it can not be inferred, That it is not; or that it is no substance: nor chose, out of its being, can it be inferred, that it is in a Place: there is no man but of himself perceiveth the false consequence of this argument, a thing is, therefore it is hot, or it is cold: and the reason is, because hot and cold, are particular accidents of a body; and therefore a body can be without either of them. The like proportion is between Being in general, and Being a Body, or Being in a Body: for both these, are particulars in respect of Being: but to be in a Place, is nothing else, but to be in a circumstant Body: and so, what is not in a Body, is not in a Place: therefore, as it were an absurd illation to say, it is, therefore it is in a Body; no less is it to say, it is, therefore it is somewhere; which is equivalent to, in some Body: and so a great Master (Peradventure one of the greatest, and iudiciousest that ever have been) telleth us plainly, 
Boetius.  that of itself it is evident, to those who are truly learned, that incorporeal substances are not in Place: and Aristotle teacheth us, that the Universe is not in Place.  
But now to make use of this discourse, we must intimate what it is we level at in it: we direct it to two ends; first, to lead on our thoughts, and to help our apprehension, in framing some conception of a spiritual substance, without residence in Place; and to prevent our fancies checking at such abstraction; since we see that we use it in our ordinary speech, when we think not on it, nor labour for it, in all universal and indefinite terms: next, to trace out an eminent propriety of a separated soul: namely, that she is no where; and yet (upon the matter) that she is every where: that she is bound to no Place, and yet remote from none: that she is able to work upon all, without shifting from one to an other, or coming near any: and that she is free from all, without removing or parting from any one.  

3 That a separated soul is not in time nor subject to it.  A second propriety, not much unlike this first, we shall discover in a separated soul, if we compare her with time. We have heretofore explicated, how Time is the motion of the heavens; which giveth us our motion; which measureth all particular motions; and which comprehendeth all bodies, and maketh them await his leisure. From the large empire of this proud commander, a separated soul is free: for although she do consist with time, (that is to say, she is, whiles time is;) yet is ●he not in time; nor doth she in any of her actions, expect time; but she is able to frame time, to spin or weave it out of herself, and to master it.  
All which will appear manifestly, if we consider what it is to be in time. Aristotle showeth us; that, to be comprehended under time, or to be in time, is, to be one of those movables, whose being consisting in motion, taketh up but a part of Time; and hath its terms, before, and behind, in time; and is measured by Time; and must expect the flowing of Time, both for Being, and for Action. Now all this manifestly belongeth unto Bodies, whose both action and being, is subject to a perpetual local motion and alteration: and consequently, a separated soul, who is totally a Being, and hath her whole operation all together (as being nothing but herself when we speak of her perfective operation;) can not be said to be in time, but is absolutely free from it; though time do glide by her, as it doth by other things: and so, all that she knoweth or can do, she doth and knoweth at once, with one act of the understanding or rather, she is, (indeed and really) all that: and therefore, she doth not require time to manage or order her thoughts, nor do they succeed one an other, by such vicissitudes as men are forced to think of things by, because their fancy, and the images in it which beat upon the soul to mak●●er think, whiles she is in the body, are corporeal, and therefore, do require time to move in, and to give way to one and other: but she thinketh of all the things in the world, and of all that she can think of, together and at once; as hereafter we intent to show.  
A third propriety we may conceive to be in a separated soul▪ by apprehending her to be an Activity; 
4 That the soul is an active substance, and all in it is activity.  which that we may rightly understand, let us compare her, in regard of working, with a body: reflecting then upon the nature of bodies, we shall find, that not any of them will do the functions they are framed for, unless some other thing do stir them up, and cause them so to do. As for example; a knife, if it be thrust or pressed, will cut, otherwise, it will lie still and have no effect: and as it fareth with a knife, so it doth in the same manner with those bodies, which seem most to move themselves; as upon a little consideration, will appear plainly. A beast seemeth to move itself: but if we call to mind, what we have delivered upon this subject in the first Treatise, we shall find that whensoever he beginneth to move, he either perceiveth something by his sense, which causeth his motion, or else he remembreth something that is in his brain, which worketh the like effect. Now if sense presenteth him an object that causeth his motion, we see manifestly, that it is an external cause which maketh him move: but if memory do it, we shall find that stirred by some other part; as by the stomach, or by the heart, which is empty, or heated, or hath received some other impression from an other body, so that, sooner or later, we shall discover an outward mover. The like is in natural motions; as, in heavy things, their easy following (if they be sucked) an other way then downwards, testifieth that their motion downwards hath an extrinsecall motor, as is before declared: and not only in these, but throughout, in all other corporeal things. So that in a word, all bodies are of this nature, that unless some other thing press them and alter them, when they are quiett, they remain so; and have no activity, otherwise then from an extrinsecall mover: but of the soul, we have declared the contrary; and that, by its nature, motion may proceed from it, without any mutation in it, or without its receiving any order, direction, or impulse, from an extrinsecall cause.  

5 A description of the soul.  So that, now summing up together, all we have said upon this occasion, we find a soul exempted from the body, to be; An indivisible substance, exempted from place and time, yet present to both: an actual and present knowledge of all things that may be known: and a skill or rule, even by what itself is, to all things whatsoever. This she is, if she be perfect: but if she be imperfect; then, is she all this to the proportion of her groweth, (if so I may say) and she is powerful according to the measure of her knowledge, and of her will. So that in fine, a separated soul, is of a nature to have, and to know, and to govern all things.  

6 That a separated soul knoweth all that which she knew whilst she was in her body.  I may reasonably suspect, that my saying how imperfect souls are rules to the proportion of their groweth, may hau● occasioned great reflection, and may have bred some trouble in the curious and heedful reader. I confess this expression was delivered by me, only to free myself for the present from the labour of showing what knowledge every separated soul hath: but upon second thoughts, I find that such sliding over this difficult point will not serve my turn, nor save me the pains of untying this knot: for unless I explicate what I mean by that speech, I shall leave my Reader in great doubt and anxiety; which to free him from, I must wade a little further in this question of the extent of a separated souls knowledge, into which, I have thus, upon the by, engaged myself: but let him first be advertised, that I do not here meddle, with what a separated soul may know by revelation, or by supernatural means: but that I do only track out her natural paths; and do guess at what she is, or knoweth, by that light which her conversation in her body affordeth us.  
Our entrance into this matter must be, to consider what mutation in respect of knowledge, a souls first change out of her body, maketh in her; for it is not unlikely, but that nature may some way enlighten us so far, as to let us understand what must follow out of the negation of the body's consorteshippe, added unto what we know of her and other works in this world. This then first occurreth that surely she can not choose but still know in that state, all that she did know whiles she was in the body; since we are certain that the body hath no part in that which is true knowledge: as is above declared, when we showed; first, that all true knowledge is respective; secondly, that the first impressions of the fancy, do not reach to the interior soul; and lastly, that she worketh by much more, than what hath any actual correspondence in the fancy, and that all things are united to her by the force of Being: from which last, it followeth that all things she knoweth, are herself; and she, is, all that she knoweth: wherefore, if she keepeth herself and her own Being, she must needs keep the knowledge of all that she knew in this world.  
Next, she must undoubtedly know then somewhat more, than she knew in the body; 
7 That the least knowledge which the soul acquireth in her body of any one thing doth cause in her, when she is separated from her body a complete knowledge of all things whatsoever.  for seeing that out of the things she already knoweth, others will follow by the mere ordering and connexion of them; and that the souls proper work, is to order things: we can not doubt, but that, both the things she knoweth in this world, must of necessity be ordered in her to the best advantage; and likewise, that all that, will be known, which wanteth no other cause for the knowing of it, but the ordering of these things: for if the nature of a thing, were order, who can doubt but what were put into that thing, were put into order? Now, that the nature of the soul is such, we collect easily; for seeing that all order proceedeth from her, it must be acknowledged that order is first in her: but what is in her, is her nature: her nature then, is order; and what is in her, is ordered. In saying of which, I do not mean that there is such an order between the notions of a separated soul, as is between material things, that are ordered by the soul whiles she is in the body; for seeing that the soul is adequate cause of such order; (that is to say, a cause which can make any an such, and the whole kind of it;) it followeth, that such order is not in her; for if it were, she would be cause of herself, or of her own parts. Order therefore, in her, must signify a thing more eminent, then such inferior order, in which resideth the power of making that inferior order: and this is nothing else, but the connexion of her notions by the necessity of Being; which we have often explicated. And out of this eminent or superior kind of order, our conclusion followeth no less than if the inferior order which we see in our fancies, whiles our soul is in our Body, did reside in our interior soul; for, it is the necessity of identification, which doth the effect, and maketh the soul know; and the order of phantasms, is but a precedent condition in the bodily Agent, that it may work upon the soul; and if more phantasms than one could be together, this order would not be necessary.  
Out of this, a notable and a vast conclusion, manifestly followeth: to wit, that if a soul, can know any one thing more when she is out the body, than what she did know whiles she was in the body; without any manner of doubt, she knoweth all that can be drawn, and forced out of those knowledges, which she had in her body. How much this is, and how far it will reach, I am afraid to speak: only I entreat Mathematicians, and such as are acquainted with the manner how sciences proceed; to consider how some of their definitions are made: to wit by composing together sundry known terms, and giving a new name to the compound that resulteth out of them: wherefore clear it is, that out of fewer notions had at the first, the soul can make many more: and the more she hath, or maketh, the more she can multiply. Again, the maxims, which are necessary to be added unto the definitions for gaining of knowledge, we see are also compounded of ordinary and known terms; so that a separated soul, can want neither the Definitions, nor the Maxims, out of which the books of sciences are composed: and therefore, neither can the sciences themselves be wanting unto her. Now if we consider, that in the same fashion as demonstrations are made, and knowledge is acquired in one science, by the same means, there is a transcendence from science to science: and that there is a connexion among all the sciences, which fall into the consideration of man, and indeed among all, at the least corporeal things; (for of spiritual things, we can not so assuredly affirm it; although their perfection may persuade us, that there is rather a greater connexion among them, then among corporeal things) it will follow, that a soul which hath but any indifferent knowledge in this world, shall be replenished with all knowledge in the next.  
But how much is this indifferent knowledge, that for this purpose is required in this world? Upon mature consideration of this point, it is true, I find it absolutely necessary, that the soul must have here so much knowledge, as to be able to determine that some one thing, which hath connexion with all the rest, is in such a time: but then, why out of this very conception, she should not be able to climb up by degrees, to the knowledge of all other things whatsoever (since there is a connexion between that, and all the rest, and no untransible gap, or Chaos to sever them) I profess I do not see. Which if it be so, than the soul of an abortive in his mother's womb, if he once arrive to have sense, and from it, to receive any impression in his soul, may for aught I know, or can suspect to the contrary, be endued in the next world with as much knowledge, as the soul of the greatest Clerk that ever lived: and if an abortive do not arrive so far, as to the knowledge of some one thing, I know no reason, why we should believe it arrived to the nature of man.  
Whence it followeth, that this amplitude of knowledge, is common to all humane souls, (of what pitch soever they seem to be here) when they are separated from their bodies: as also, that if any error have crept into a man's judgement, during this life, whether it be of some universal conclusion, or of some particular thing, all such will be abolished then, by the truth appearing on the opposite side; sithence two contradictory judgements, can not possess our soul together: as even in this world, as well experience, as reason teacheth us.  
But unawares I have engulfed myself into a sea of contradiction, from no mean adversaries: for Alexander Aphrodiseus, Pomponatius, and the learnedest of the Peripatetic school, 
8 An answer to the objections of some Peripatetikes who maintain the soul to perish with the body.  will all of them rise up in main opposition against this doctrine of mine: showing how in the body, all our soul's knowledge is made, by the working of our fancy; and that there is no act of our soul, without speculation of phantasms residing in our memory: therefore, seeing that when our body is gone, all those little bodies of phantasms are gone with it; what sign is there, that any operation can remain? And hence they infer, that seeing every substance hath its Being for its operations sake, and by consequence were vain and superfluous in the world, if it could not enjoy and exercise its operation; there is no necessity or end, why the soul of a man should survive his body: and consequently, there is no reason to imagine other, then that it perisheth when the man dyeth. This is the substance of their argument; which indeed is nothing else, but to guess without ground, or rather against all ground: but howsoever, this comfort I have, that I have to do with Peripatetikes; men that will hear and answer reason: and to such I address my speech.  
To join issue then with them, and to encounter them with their own weapons, let us call to mind, what Aristotle holdeth light to be. He saith, that it is a sudden and momentary emanation of what it is, following the precedent motion of some body, but without motion in itself. As for example: when the sun cometh into our horizon, (saith he) the illumination of the horizon, is an effect in an instant, following from the motion which the sun had, since his setting in the other hemisphere, until he appear there again: so that (according to him) the way of making this light, is the sun's local motion; but the effect of the being enlightened, is a thing of a very different nature, done without beginning, and continuing until the sun depart again from our horizon. And as he explicateth this action of illumination, in the same manner, doth he the actions of sense and of understanding. Upon all which I urge, that no Peripatetic will deny me, but that as in every particular sensation or thinking, there precedeth a corporeal motion, out of which it ensueth, so this general motion, which we call the life of Man, precedeth that twinkle or moment, in which she becometh an absolute spirit, or inhabitant of the next world. Wherefore it can not be said, that we introduce a doctrine alien from the Peripatetic way of Philosophising, if we put a momentary effect of motion (according to their phrase of speaking) to follow out of the course of man's life; since they put divers such effects, to follow out of particular parts of it.  
Now, this momentary change, or what they please to call it, is that which maketh at one blow, all this knowledge we speak of: for, if we remember that knowledge is not a doing or a motion, but a Being; as is agreed between the Peripatetikes and us; they can not, for the continuing it, require instruments and motors: for they are necessary only for change, not for Being. Now, all this mighty change, which is made at the soul's delivery, we conceive followeth precisely out of the change of her Being: for seeing it is supposed, that her Being was before in a body, but is now out of a body; it must of necessity follow, that all impediments, which grew out of her being in a body, must be taken away by her being freed from it. Among which impediments, one is, that time is then required betwixt her knowledge of one thing, and her knowledge of an other thing; and so her capacity, that of itself is infinite, becometh confined to that small multitude of objects, which the division and straightness of time giveth way unto. Now that, which length of time could in part work in the body, the same is entirely done in a moment, by the changing of her manner of Being: for by taking away the bonds, by which she was enthralled in the body, and was kept in, to apprehend but according to the measure of the body, and was constrained to be, and to enjoy herself (as it were) but at the body's permission; she is put in free possession of herself, and of all that is in her. And this is nothing else, but to have that large knowledge, we have spoken of▪ for her knowing all that, is no other thing but her being herself perfectly. Which will appear evident, if we consider that her nature is, to be a Knower, and that knowledge is nothing else but a Being of the object in the Knower; for thence it followeth, that to know all things is naught else then to be all things: since then, we concluded by our former discourse, that all things were to be gathered out of any one; it is clear that to be perfectly herself, and any one thing, is in truth to know all things.  
And thus we see, that for the souls enjoying all this knowledge when she is out of the body, she needeth no objects without her, no phantasms, no instruments, no helps; but that all that is requisite, is contained absolutely in her being herself perfectly. And so we retort our Adversary's objection on themselves; by representing to them, that since in their own doctrine, they require no body nor instruments, for that precise action which they call understanding: it is without all ground, for them to require bodies and instruments in the next life, that the soul may there be that, which, they acnowledge she is in her body without any such helps.  
And as for that axiom or experience, that the soul doth not understand, unless she speculate phantasms: as on the one side I yield to it, and confess the experience, after the best and seriousest trial I could make of it; so on the other side, when I examine the matter to the bottom, I find that it cometh not home to our adversary's intention. For as when we look upon a thing, we conceive we work upon that thing, whereas in truth we do but set ourselves in such a position that the thing seen may work upon us: in like manner our looking upon the phantasms in our brain, is not our soul's action upon them, but it is our letting them beat at our common sense; that is, our letting them work upon our soul. The effect whereof is, that either oursoule is bettered in herself, as when we study and contemplate: or else, that she bettereth something without us, as when by this thinking, we order any action.  
But, if they will have this Axiom avail them, they should show that the soul is not of herself a knowledge; which if they be able to do, even then when to our thinking, she seemeth not so much as to think, we will yield they have reason: but that will be impossible to them to do▪ for she is always, of herself, a knowledge, though in the body shrieves expresseth so much, but when she is put to it. Or else they should sh●w▪ that this knowledge which the soul is of herself, will not by changing the manner of her Existence, become an actual knowledge, instead of the habitual knowledge which now appeareth in her.  
But as these Aristotelians embrace and stick to one▪ Axiom of their Patron; 
9 The former Peripatetics refuted out of Aristotle.  so they forgo and prevaricate against an other for as it is Aristotle's doctrine, that a substance is for its operation, and were in vain and superfluous if it could not practise it; so likewise is it his confessed doctrine, that Matter is for its form, and not the form, for the 〈◊〉. And yet these men pretend that the soul, serveth for nothing 〈…〉 governing of the body: whereas contrawise, both all. 〈…〉 doctrine, and common sense convinceth, that the body must 〈…〉 soul. Which if it be, nothing can be more consentaneous to 〈◊〉 then to conceive that the durance which the soul hath in the 〈…〉 assigned her, to work and mould in her the future state, which 〈…〉 have after this life: and that no more operations are to be expected from her after this life, but instead of them, a settled state of Being; seeing that▪ even in this life, according to Aristotle's doctrine, the proper operations of the soul are but certain Being's: so that we may conclude, 〈◊〉 a soul were grown to the perfection, which her nature is capable of the would be nothing else but a constant Being, never changing from the happiness of the best Being.  
And although the texts of Aristotle which remain unto us, be uncertain (peradventure, not so much because they were originally such▪ in themselves, as through the mingling of some comments into the body of the text;) yet if we had his book which he wrote of the soul upon the death of his friend Eudemus, it is very likely we should there see his evident assertion of her Immortality; since it had been very impertinent to take occasion upon a friend's death to write of the soul, if he intended to conclude, that of a dead man there were no soul.  
Out of this discourse it appeareth, 
10 The operations of a separated soul compared to her operations in her body.  how those actions which we exercise in this life, are to be understood, when we hear them attributed to the next: for to think that they are to be taken in their direct plain meaning and in that way, in which they are performed in this world; were a great simplicity, and were to imagine a likeness between bodies and spirits. We must therefore elevate our minds, when we would penetrate into the true meaning of such expressions, and consider how all the actions of our soul are eminently comprehended in the universality of knowledge we have already explicated. And so, the Apprehensions, judgements, discourses, reflections, talk together, and all other such actions of ours, when they are attributed to separated souls, are but inadaequate names and representations of their instantaneall sight of all things, for, in that, they can not choose, but see others minds, which is that we call talking; and likewise their own▪ which we call reflection: the rest are plain parts, and are plainly contained in knowledge; discourse being but the falling into it; judgement the principles of it; and single apprehensions the components of judgements: then for such actions as are the beginning of operation, there can be no doubt but that they are likewise to be found, and are resumed, in the same Universality; as, love of good, consultation, resolution, prudential election, and the first motion; for who knoweth all things, can not choose but know what is good, and that good, is to be prosecuted: and who seeth completely all the means of effecting and attaining to his intended good; hath already consulted and resolved of the best: and who understandeth perfectly the matter he is to work upon, hath already made his prudential election: so that there remaineth nothing more to be done, but to give the first impulse.  
And thus you see, that this universality of knowledge in the soul, comprehendeth all, 
11 That a separated soul is in a state of pure being, and consequently immortal.  is all, performeth all; and no imaginable good or happiness, is out of her reach. A noble creature, and not to be cast away upon such trash as most men employ their thoughts in. Upon whom it is now time to reflect; and to consider, what effects the divers manners of living in this world, do work upon her in the next; if first we acquitt ourselves of a promise we made at the end of the last Chapter. For it being now amply declared, that the state of a soul exempted from her body, is a state of pure being; it followeth manifestly, that there is neither Action nor Passion in that state: which being so, it is beyond all opposition that the soul can not die: for it is evident that all corruption, must come from the action of an other thing, upon that which is corrupted; and therefore that thing must be capable of being made better and of being made worse. Now then, if a separated soul be in a final state, where she can neither be bettered, or worsened, (as she must be, if she be such a thing, as we have declared) it followeth that she can not possibly lose the Being which she hath: and sithence her passage out of the body, doth not change her nature, but only her state; it is clear, that she is of the same nature, even in the body: though in this her durance, she be subject to be forged (as it were) by the hammers of corporeal objects beating upon her; yet so, that of herself she still is what she is. And therefore as soon as she is out of the passable oore, in which she suffereth by reason of that oore, she presently becometh impassable, as being purely of her own nature, a fixed substance, that is, a pure Being. Both which states of the soul, may in some sort be adumbrated by what we see passeth in the coppelling of a fixed mettle; for as long as any lead, or dross, or allay remaineth with it, it continueth melted, flowing, and in motion under the muffle: but as soon as they are parted from it, and that it is become pure, without any mixture, and singly itself, it contracteth itself to a narrower room, and at that very instant, ceaseth from all motion, groweth hard, permanent, resistent unto all operations of fire, and suffereth no change or diminution in its substance by any outward violence we can use unto it.   

THE ELEVENTH CHAPTER. Showing what effects, the divers manners of living in this world, do cause in a soul, after she is separated from her body.  
ONe thing, 
1 That a soul in this life is subject to mutation, and may be perfected in knowledge.  may peradventure seem of hard digestion in our past discourse; and it is, that out of the grounds we have laid, it seemeth to follow that all souls will have an equality; since we have concluded, that the greatest shall see or know no more than the least: and indeed, there appeareth no cause why this great and noble creature, should lie imprisoned in the obscure dungeon of noisome flesh; if in the first instant, in which it hath its first knowledge, it hath then already gained all whatsoever it is capable of gaining in the whole progress of a long life afterwards. Truly, the Platonike Philosophers (who are persuaded that a humane soul doth not profit in this life, nor that she acquired any knowledge here; as being of herself completely perfect; and that all our discourses, are but her remembringes of what she had forgotten) will find themselves ill bestedd to render a Philosophical and sufficient cause of her being locked into a body: for to put forgettfulnesse in a pure spirit; so palpable an effect of corporeity, and so great a corruption, in respect of a creature whose nature is, to know of itself, is an unsufferable error. Besides, when they tell us, that she can not be changed, because all change would prejudice the spiritual nature, which they attribute to her; but that well she may be warned and excitated by being in a body; they merely trifle: for either there is some true mutation made in her by that which they call a warning, or there is not; if there be not, how becometh it a warning to her? Or what is it more to her then if a straw were wagged at the Antipodes? But if there be some mutation (be it never so little) made in her by a corporeal motion; what should hinder, why she may not by means of her body, attain unto science she never had; as well as by it receive any the least intrinsical mutation whatsoever? For if once we admit any mutability in her from any corporeal motion, it is far more conformable unto reason to suppose it in regard of that which is her natural perfection, and of that, which by her operations we see she hath immediately after such corporeal motions, and whereof before them there appeared in her no marks at all; then to suppose it in regard of a dark intimation, of which we neither know, it is nor how it is performed. Surely, no Rational Philosopher seeing a thing, whose nature is to know, have a being, whereas formerly it existed not; and observing, how that thing by little and little giveth signs of more and more knowledge, can doubt but that as she could be changed from not being to being; so, may she likewise be changed from less knowing, to more knowing.  

2 That the knowledges which a so●le getteth in this life will make her knowledge in the next life more perfect, and firm.  This then being irrefragably settled, that in the body she doth increase in knowledge: let us come to our difficulty and examine what this increase in the body availeth her; seeing that as soon as she parteth from it, she shall of her own nature enjoy, and be replenished with the knowledge of all things: why should she laboriously strive to anticipate the getting of a few drops, which but increase her thirst and anxiety; when having but a little patience, she shall at one full and everlasting draught drink up the whole sea of it? We know that the soul is a thing, made proportionably to the making of its body; seeing, it is the body's compartener: and we have concluded, that whiles it is in the body, it acquireth perfection in that way, which the nature of it is capable of; that is, in knowledge: as the body acquireth perfection its way; which is, in strength and agility. Now then, let us compare the proceed of the one, with those of the other substance; and peradventure we may gain some light, to discern what advantage it may prove unto a soul, to remain long in its body, if it make right use of its dwelling there. Let us consider the body of a man, well and exactly shaped in all his members; yet, if he never use care, nor pains to exercise those well framed limbs of his; he will want much of those corporeal perfections, which others will have, who employ them sedulously. Though his legs, arms, and hands, be of an exact symmetry; yet he will not be able to run, to wrestle, or to throw a dart, with those who labour to perfect themselves in such exercises: though his fingers be never so neatly moulded or composed to all advantages of quick and smart motion; yet if he never learned and practised on the lute, he will not be able with them to make any music upon that instrument, even after he seeth plainly, and comprehendeth fully all that the cunningest Lutenist doth; nether will he be able to play, as he doth with his fingers, which of themselves are peradventure less apt for those voluble motions then his are. That which maketh a man dexterous in any of these arts, or in any other operations proper to any of the parts or limbs of his body, is the often repetitions of the same acts; which do amend, and perfect those limbs in their motions, and which make them fit and ready for the actions they are designed unto.  
In the same manner it fareth with the soul; who●e essence is that which she knoweth: her several knowledges may be compared, to arms, hands, fingers, legs, thighs, &c, in a body: and all her knowledges taken together, do compose (as I may say) and make her up, what she is. Now, those limbs of hers, though they be, when they are at the worst, entire, and well shaped in bulk (to use the comparison of bodies;) yt they are susceptible of further perfection, as our corporeal limbs are, by often and orderly usage of them. When we iterate our acts of our understanding any object, the second act is of the same nature, as she first, the third, as the second, and so, of the rest: every one of which perfecteth the understanding of that thing, and of all that dependeth upon the knowledge of it, and maketh it become more vigorous and strong; even the often throwing of a bowl at the same mark, begetteth still more and more strength and justness in the arm that delivereth it: for, it can not be denied but that the same cause which maketh any thing, must of necessity perfect and strengthen it, by repeating its force and strokes. We may then conclude that the knowledge of our soul, (which is indeed herself) will be in the next life more perfect and strong, or more slack and weak, according as in this life she hath often and vigorously, or faintly and seldom, busied herself about those things which beget such knowledge.  
Now those things which men bestow their pains to know, 
3 That the souls of men addicted to science whilst they lived here are more perfect in the next world than the souls of unlearned men.  we see are of two kinds: for some thirst after the knowledge of nature, and of the variety of things, which either their senses, or their discourse, tell them of: but others look no higher than to have an insight into humane action, or to gain skill in some art, whereby they may acquire means to live. These later curiosities, are but of particulars; that is, of some one, or few species, or kinds, whose common that comprehendeth them, falleth within the reach of every vulgar capacity; and consequently, the things which depend upon them, are low, mean, and contemptible: whereas, the beauty, vastness, and excellency of the others, is so much beyond them, as they can be brought into no proportion to one an other. Now then, if we consider, what advantage the one sort of these men, will in the next world have over the other; we shall find, that they who spend their life here in the study and contemplation of the first noble objects, will, in the next, have their universal knowledge (that is their soul) strong and perfect: whiles the others, that played away their thoughts and time upon trifles, and seldom raised their, minds above the pitch of sense, will be faint through their former laizinesse, like bodies benumbed with the palsy, and sickly through their ill dyett; as when a well shaped virgin, that having fed upon trash instead of nourishing meats, languisheth under a wearisome burden of the green sickness.  
To make this point yet more clear, 
4 That those souls which embrace virtue in this world will be most perfect in the next, and those which embrace vice most miserable.  we may consider how the things which we gain knowledge of, do affect us under the title of good and convenient, in two several manners. The one is, when the appearance of good, in the abstracted nature of it, and after examination of all circumstances, carrieth our hart to the desire of the thing, that appeareth so unto us: the other is▪ when the semblance of good to our own particular persons without casting any further, or questioning whether any other regard may not make it prejudicial, doth cause in us a longing for the thing wherein such semblance shineth. Now, for the most part the knowledges which spring out of the later objects, are more cultivated by us, than those which arise out of the other; partly by reason of their frequent occurring, either through necessity, or through judgement; and partly, by the addition which passion giveth to the impressions they make upon us: for passion multiplieth the thoughts of such things, more than of any others, if reason do not cross and suppress her tumultuary motions, which in most men, she doth not. The souls then of such persons, as giving way to their passion, do in this life busy themselves about such things as appear good to their own persons, and cast no further, must needs decede from their bodies, unequally builded, (if that expression may be permitted me;) and will be like a lame unwieldy body, in which the principal limbs are not able to govern and move the others; because those principal ones are faint, through want of spirits and exercise; and the others are overgrown with hidropicall and nocive humours. The reason whereof is that in such souls their judgements will be disproportioned to one an other, one of them being unduely stronger than the other. What effect this worketh in regard of knowledge, we have already declared, and no less will it have in respect of action: for suppose two judgements to be unequal, and such, as in the action one contradicteth the other; for example, let one of my judgements be, that it is good for me to eat because I am hungry; and let the other be, that it is good for me to study, because I am shortly to give an account of myself: if the one judgement be stronger than the other, as if that of eating be stronger than that of studying; it importeth not that there be more reason (all circumstances considered) for studying: because, reasons, do move to action according to the measure in which the resolution that is taken upon them, is strong or weak; and therefore, my action will follow the strongest judgement, and I shall leave my book to go to my dinner.  
Now, to apply this to the state of a separated soul; we are to remember how the spiritual judgements, which she collected in the body, do remain in her after she is divested of it: and likewise, we are to consider, how all her proceeding in that state, is built, not upon passion, or any bodily causes or dispositions; but merely upon the quality and force of those spiritual judgements: and then, it evidently followeth, that if there were any such action in the next life, the pure soul would apply itself thereunto, according to the proportion of her judgements, and as they are graduated and qualifyed. It is true, there is no such action remaining in the next life; yet nevertheless there remaineth in the soul a disposition and a promptitude to such action: and if we will frame a right apprehension of a separated soul, we must conceit her to be of such a nature (for then all is nature with her, as hereafter we shall discourse,) as if she were a thing made for action in that proportion and efficacity, which the quartering of her by this variety of judgements doth afford; that is that she is, so much the more fit for one action then for an other, (were she to proceed to action,) as the judgement of the goodness of one of these actions is stronger in her, than the judgement of the others goodness, which is in effect, by how much the one is more cultivated than the other. And out of this we may conclude, that what motions do follow in a man, out of discourse, the like will in a separated soul, follow out of her spiritual judgements. So that as he is joyed, if he do possess his desired good; and is discontented and displeased, if he miss of it; and seizeth greedily upon it when it is present to him, and then cleaveth fast unto it, and whiles he wanteth it, no other good affecteth him, but he is still longing after that Masterwish of his heart: the like in every regard, but much more vehemently, befalleth unto a separated soul. So that in fine she will be happy, or miserable, according as she hath built up herself, by her spiritual judgements and affections in this life. If knowledge, and intellectual objects be the goods she thirsteth after, what can be happier than she, when she possesseth the fullness of all that can be desired in that kind? But if in this world a man settleth his hart constantly upon any transitory end; as upon wealth, corporeal delights, honour, power, and the like, (which are too short breathed attendants to follow him so long a journey as into the next;) then, all the powe● of his soul, even after she hath left her body, will be still longing after that dear Idol of her affections; and for the want of it, she will not value the great knowledge she shall then be imbued withal, nor care for any other good she possesseth like a man who being sorrounded, with a full sea, and swollen tide of all specious objects that may please and delight him, hath by unlucky chance suffered his violent affections, and his impotent desires to be entangled in some mean love, that either neglecteth him, or he is hindered from enjoying; and thereby, that little drop of gall, or rather that privation of a mean contentment (which truly in itself, is nothing) infecteth and poisoneth the whole draught of happiness that but for this, would swell him up to the height of his wishes.  
But no comparisons of sorrows, 
5 The state of a vicious soul in the next life.  or anguishs in this life (where our earthy dwelling doth so clog, and allay, and dull the sense of our soul, which only feeleth and relisheth either delight or woe) can arrive to shadow out the misery of a separated soul so affected; whose strains are so excessively vehement, and whose nature is a pure activity, and herself, all sense, all knowledge. It is true, I confess that in a man, such motions do in part proceed from passion: and therefore, I will allow, that so much of them, as have their origine merely and only fromthence, shall die with the body, and shall not have made any impression in the separated soul: but besides the stream of passion we may in such motions observe also, the work of reason, for she, both approveth and employeth her powers, to compass and gain what the other presenteth; and by legitimate discourse, draweth consequences out of that principle or judgement, which maketh the bias, it than leaneth unto: and these, are undeniable effects of a spiritual judgement settled in the soul. And therefore, as far as these motions proceed from spiritual judgements, so far, it is clear they must remain in the separated soul.  
Peradventure, what I have said, may be liable to a mistake; as though I conceived that these spiritual judgements are made in the soul according to right reason, and to legitimate discourse: whereas, I mean nothing less; but esteeming an overstrong judgement in the separated soul, to be proportionable unto a passion in the body; I conceit that as passion settleth reason on work to find out means, whereby she may arrive unto her ends; so in like manner, may this judgement set reason on float, with those acts which follow consequently upon it (though inconsequent to the whole body of reason:) because the disorder there, is, in the excess of this iudgement over others, whose force (according to nature) ought to be greater than it. So that, if we would frame a conception of a disordered soul, when it is out of the body; we may imagine it correspondent to a body, whose one part were bigger than could stand in proportion with an other: as, if the hand (to use the example we brought before) were greater than the arm could manage, or the foot were larger and heavyer, than the leg and thigh could wield: unto which add that every part were active and working of itself; so as, though it could not be governed, yet would it continually have its own operation, which would be contrary to the operation of the arm, or of the leg, and consequently, it would ever be tending to incompossible operations: and by that means, both one member would always disagree from the other, and neither of them attain any effect at all; not unlike to the fancy of the Poets, who feigned a monster, which they termed Scylla, whose inferior parts, were a company of dogs, ever snarling and quarrelling among themselves; and yet were unseverable from one an other, as being compartes of the same substance.  
But to declare this important doctrine more dogmatically; let us consider that of necessity a disordered soul hath these following judgements settled in her. Namely, that she is not well; that she can not be well without her desired good; that it is impossible for her to compass that good; and lastly, that this state she is in, is by all means possible to be avoided; not, by changing her judgement (for that is herself) but by procuring the satisfaction she desireth; and this with all the power, and total inclination of her activity and possibility. This then, being the temper of a disordered separated soul, it is easy to conceive, what a sad condition such an one remaineth then in; which is infinitely more, than any affliction that can happen to a man in this world: for since, even here, all our joys, and griefs, do proceed from our soul; we must needs allow, that when she shall be free from the burden of her body (which doth exceedingly impeach, and limit her operations, and activity) all her actions will be then far greater and more efficacious.  
But because this point is of highest consequence, 
6 The fundamental reason why as well happiness as misery is so excessive in the next life.  we may not slightly pass it over; but we will endeavour, if we can, to discover the wonderful efficacity and force of a separated souls operations; that from thence we may the better collect, how great her happiness or misery will be in the next life. Let us then consider, how an act or judgement of the soul, may be more forcible, either by itself, or by the multiplication of such helps, as do concur with it. To begin with considering the act in itself, we know that the certainest way to measure the strength of it, is to take a survey of the force which showeth itself in its effect: for they being relatives to one an other, each of them discovereth the others nature. Now, this we will do after our ordinary manner, by comparing the spiritual effects issuing from a judgement in the soul, to material effects proceeding from the operations and motions of bodies. In these we may observe three things, by which we may estimate their efficaciousness: some actions dure a longer time; others, take up a greater place; and others again, work the like effect in a greater place, and in a shorter time: which last sort, of all others, do proceed from the most powerful, and most forcible agents. If then in these considerations, we compare a separated soul to a body; what an infinity of strength and efficacity, will the meanest of those pure substances have, beyond the most powerful and active body that can be imagined in nature? For we have already showed, how a separated soul comprehendeth at once, all place, and all times: so that, her activity requireth no application to place or time; but, she is, of herself, mistress of both, comprehending all quantity whatsoever, in an indivisible apprehension; and ranking all the parts of motion, in their complete order; and knowing at once, what is to happen in every one of them. On the other side; an incorporated soul, by reason of her being confined to the use of her senses, can look upon but one single definite place, or time, at once; and needeth a long chain of many discourses, to comprehend all the circumstances of any one action: and yet after all, how short she is of comprehending all? So that comparing the one of these with the other, it is evident, that in respect of time and place; and in respect of any one singular action; the proportion of a separated soul, to one in the body, is as all time, or all place, in respect of any one piece, or least parcel of them; or as the entire absolute comprehender of all time and all place, is to the discoverer of a small measure of them. For whatsoever a soul willeth in that state, she willeth it for the whole extent of her duration; because she is then out of the state or capacity of changing: and wisheth for whatsoever she wisheth, as for her absolute good; and therefore employeth the whole force of her judgement, upon every particular wish. Likewise the eminency which a separated soul hath over place, is also then entirely employed upon every particular wish of hers; since in that state there is no variety of place left unto her, to wish for such good in one place, and to refuse it in an other; as, whiles she is in the body happeneth to every thing she desireth. Wherefore, whatsoever she then wisheth for, she wisheth for it according to her comparison unto place: that is to say; that as such a soul hath a power to work at the same time in all place by the absolute comprehension, which she hath of place in abstract: so every wish of that soul, if it were concerning a thing to be made in place, were able to make it in all places; through the excessive force and efficacy which she employeth upon every particular wish. The third effect by which among bodies we gather the vigour, and energy of the cause that produceth it, (to wit, the doing of the like action, in a lesser time, and in a larger extent,) is but a combination of the two former: and therefore, it requireth no further particular insistance upon it, to show, that likewise in this, the proportion of a separated to an incorporated soul, must needs be the self same as in the others; seeing that a separated souls activity, is upon all place in an indivisible of time.  
Therefore, to shut up this point; there remaineth only for us to consider, what addition may be made unto the efficacity of a judgement, by the concurrence of other extrinsecall helps. We see that when an understanding man will settle any judgement, or conclusion in his mind, he weigheth throughly all that followeth out of such a judgement; and considereth likewise all the antecedents that lead him unto it: and if after due reflection, and examination, of whatsoever concerneth that conclusion, which he is establishing in his mind, he findeth nothing to cross it, but that every particular and circumstance goeth smoothly along with it, and strengtheneth it; he is then satisfied, and quiett in his thoughts, and yieldeth a full assent thereunto: which assent is the stronger, by how many the more concurrent testimonies he hath for it. And although he should have a perfect demonstration or sight of the thing in itself, yet every one of the other extrinsecall proofs, being as it were a new persuasion, hath in it a further vigour to strengthen and content his mind in the forehad demonstration: for, if every one of these be in itself sufficient to make the thing evident; it can not happen that any one of them, should hinder the others: but chose, every one of them, must needs coucurre with all the rest, to the effectual quieting of his understanding, in its assent, to that judgement. Now then, according to this rate, let us calculate, (if we can) what concurrence of proofs and witnesses a separated soul will have to settle and strengthen her in every one of her judgements. We know, that all verities are chained, and connected one to an other; and that there is no true conclusion so far remote from any other, but may by more, or less consequences and discourses, be deduced evidently out of it: it followeth then that in the abstracted soul, where all such consequences are ready drawn, and seen in themselves without extension of time, or employing of pains to collect them▪ every particular verity, beareth testimony to any other: so that every one of them is believed, and worketh in the force and virtue of all. Out of which it is manifest, that every judgement in such a separated soul, hath an infinite strength and efficacity over any made by an embodied one.  
To sum all up in a few words: we find three roots of infinity in every action of a separated soul, in respect of one in the body: first, the freedom of her essence or substance in itself: next, that quality of hers, by which she comprehendeth place and time; that is, all permanent and successive quantity: and lastly, the concurrence of infinite knowledges to every action of hers. Having then this measure in our hands, let us apply it to a well ordered, and to a disordered soul passing out of this world: let us consider the one of them, set upon those goods, which she shall there have present and shall fully enjoy: the other, languishing after, and pining away for those, which are impossible for her ever to obtain. What joy, what content, what exultation of mind, in any living man, can be conceived so great, as to be compared with the happiness of one of these souls? And what grief, what discontent, what misery, can be like the others?  
These are the different effects, 
7 The reason why man's soul requireth to be in a body, and to live for some space of time joined with it.  which the divers manners of living in this world, do cause in souls after they are delivered from their bodies: out of which, and out of the discourse that hath discovered these effects unto us, we see a clear resolution of that so main and agitated question among the Philosophers, why a rational soul is imprisoned in a gross body of flesh and blood? In truth, the question is an illegitimate one; as supposing a false ground: for, the souls being in the body, is not an imprisonnement of a thing that was existent before the soul and body met together; but her being there, is the natural course of beginning that, which can no other way come into the lists of nature: for should a soul, by the course of nature, obtain her first being without a body, either she would in the first instant of her being, be perfect in knowledge, or she would not: if she were, than would she be a perfect and complete immaterial substance, not a soul; whose nature is to be a compartner to the body, and to acquire her perfection by the mediation and service of corporeal senses: but if she were not perfect in science, but were only a capacity thereunto, and like unto white paper, in which nothing were yet w●●tten; then, unless she were put in a body, she could never arrive to know any thing, because motion and alteration are effects peculiar to bodies: therefore, it must be agreed, that she is naturally designed to be in a body: but her being in a body, is her being one thing with the body, she is said to be in: and so she is one part of a whole, which from its weaker part is determined to be a body.  
Again, seeing that the matter of any thing, is to be prepared, before the end is prepared, for which that matter is to serve; according to that Axiom, Quod est primum in intention, est ultimum in executione: we may not deny, but that the body is in being, some time before the soul: or at the least, that it existeth as soon as she doth: and therefore, it appeareth wholly unreasonable, to say, that the soul was first made out of the body, and was afterwards thrust into it; seeing that the body was prepared for the soul before, or at the least, as soon as she had any beginning: and so we may conclude, that of necessity the soul must be begun, laid, hatched, and perfected in the body.  
And although it be true, that such souls, as are separated from their bodies, in the first instant of their being there, are notwithstanding imbued with the knowledge of all things; yet is not their longer abode therein vain: not only, because thereby the species is multiplied; (for nature is not content with barely doing that, without addition of some good to the soul itself) but as well for the wonderful, and I may say infinite advantage, that may thereby accrue to the soul, if she make right use of it: for, as any act of the abstracted soul is infinite, in comparison of the acts which men exercise in this life, (according to what we have already showed) so by consequence, must any increase of it, be likewise infinite: and therefore we may conclude, that a long life well spent, is the greatest and most excellent gift, which nature can bestow upon a man.  
The unwary reader may perhaps have difficulty, at our often repeating of the infelicity of a miserable soul; 
8 That the misery of the soul in the next world, proceedeth out of inequality, and not out of falsity of her judgements.  since we say, that it proceedeth out of the judgements, she had formerly made in this life; which without all doubt were false ones: and nevertheless, it is evident, that no false judgements, can remain in a soul, after she is separated from her body; as we have above determined. How then can a soul's judgements, be the cause of her misery? But the more heedful reader, will have noted, that the misery which we put in a soul, proceedeth out of the inequality, not out of the falsity, of her judgements: for if a man be inclined to a lesser good, more than to a greater, he will in action betake himself to the lesser good, and desert the greater, (wherein, neither iudgement is false, nor either inclination is naught) merely out of the improportion of the two inclinations or judgements to their objects: for that a soul may be duly ordered, and in a state of being well, she must have a lesser inclination to a less good, and a greater inclination to a greater good: and in pure spirits, these inclinations are nothing else, but the strength of their judgements: which judgements in souls, whiles they are in their bodies, are made by the repetition of more acts from stronger causes, or in more favourable circumstances. And so it appeareth, how without any falsity in any judgement, a soul may become miserable, by her conversation in this world; where all her inclinations generally are good, unless the disproportion of them, do make them bad.   

THE TWELFTH CHAPTER. Of the perseverance of a soul, in the state she findeth herself in, at her first separation from her body.  
THus we have brought man's soul, 
1 The explication, and proof of that maxim, that, if the cause be i● act, the effect must also b●.  out of the body she lived in here, and by which she conversed, and had commerce with the other parts of this world: and we have assigned her, her first array and stole, with which she may be seen in the next world: so that now there remaineth only for us to consider, what shall betid her afterwards; and whether any change may happen to her, and be made in her, after the first instant of her being a pure spirit, separated from all consortshippe with material substances. To determine this point the more clearly, let us call to mind, an axiom that Aristotle giveth us in his logic; which teacheth us, That as it is true, if the effect be, there is a cause; so likewise it is most true, that if the cause be in act, or causing, the effect must also be. Which Axiom may be understood two ways: the one, that if the cause hath its effect, than the effect also is: and this is no great mystery; or for it, are any thanks due to the teacher; it being but a repetition, and saying over again of the same thing. The other way is, that if the cause be perfect in the nature of being a cause, than the effect is: which is as much as to say, that if nothing be wanting to the cause, abstracting precisely from the effect; then neither is the effect wanting. And this is the meaning of Aristotle's Axiom: of the truth and evidence whereof in this sense, if any man should make the least doubt, it were easy to evince it: as thus; if nothing be wanting but the effect, and yet the effect doth not immediately follow, it must needs be, that it can not follow at all; for if it can, and doth not, than something more must be done to make it follow: which is against the supposition, that nothing was wanting but the effect; for that which is to be done, was wanting. To say, it will follow without any change, is senseless: for if it follow without change, it followeth out of this, which is already put: but if it do follow out of this which is precisely put, than it followeth, against the supposition, which was, that it did not follow although this were put.  
This then being evident, 
2 The effects of all such agents as work instantaneously, ar● complete in the first instant that the agents are put.  let us apply it to our purpose; and let us put three or more things, namely A. B. C. and D: whereof none can work otherwise, then in an instant or indivisibly: and I say, that whatsoever these four things are able to do, without respect to any other thing besides them, is completely done in the first instant of their being put: and if they remain for all eternity, without communication or respect to any other thing, there shall never be any innovation in any of them, or any further working among them: but they will always remain immutable, in the same state they were in, at the very first instant of their being put: for whatsoever A can do, in the first instant, is in that first instant actually done; because he worketh indivisibly: and what can be done precisely by A, and by his action joined to B; doth precisely follow out of A, and his action, and out of B, and his action, if B have any action independent of A: and because all these are in the same instant, whatsoever followeth precisely out of these, and out of any thing else that is in the same instant, and that worketh indivisibly as they do; is necessarily done in that very instant: but all the actions of C and D, and of whatsoever by reflection from them may be done by A and B, being all of them indivisible, and following precisely out of some of the forenamed actions; they do follow out of things being in this instant: and because they are indivisible, they may be in this instant: and therefore, all is done in this instant. Now, supposing all to be done that can be done by them in this instant; and that nothing can follow from them, unless it follow precisely out of what is in this instant; and that it is all indivisible: it followeth clearly, that whatsoever (concerning them) is not in this instant, can never be.  

3 All pure spirits do work instantaneously.  These two conclusions being thus demonstrated; let us in the next place determine, how all actions of pure spirits, which have no respect to bodies, must of necessity be indivisible; that is, must include no continuate succession: by which, I mean such a succession, as may be divided into parts without end: for if we look well into it, we shall find, that a continuate succession can not be a thing, which hath in itself a Being: and the reason is, because the essence of such a succession, consisteth in having some of its parts already passed, and others of them yet to come: but on the other side, it is evident, that no such thing can be, whose essential ingredients are not itself: and therefore it followeth evidently, that such a thing as we call succession, can have no being in itself: seeing that one essential part of it, never is with the other: therefore, such a succession, must have its being in some permanent thing, which must be divisible; for that is essentially required in succession: but permanent divisibility is that which we call bigness or Quantity; from which pure spirits are free: and therefore, it is most evident, that all their actions in respect of themselves, are absolutely indivisible.  

4 That a soul separated from her body can not suffer any change after the first instant of her separation.  Now, to make use of this doctrine to our intent: we say, that since our soul, when it is separated from our body, is a pure spirit or understanding; and that all her actions are indivisible; and that all actions of other spirits vpon her must likewise be such; and by consequence, that there can be no continuate succession of action among them: we must of necessity conclude, that according to the private nature of the soul, and according to the common notion of spiritual things; there can be no change made in her, after the first instant of her parting from her body: but, what happiness or misery betideth her in that instant, continueth with her for all eternity. Yet is it not my mind to say, that by the course of the universal resolutions, from which she is not wholly exempt, and from supernatural administration of corporeal things, there may not result some change in her. But the consideration of that matter, I remit to those treatises, unto which it belongeth; as not depending, nor ensuing from the particular nature of the soul: and therefore, not falling under our discussion in this place.  
This same conclusion may be proved by an other argument, besides this which we have now used: and it is this. Whatsoever worketh purely by understanding and mind, can not be changed in its operations, unless its understanding or mind be altered: but this can not happen, unless either it learn somewhat, it knew not before; or forgetting a foreknown truth, it begin afterwards to think a falsity. This second part, is impossible, as we have already showed, when we proved that falsehood could have no admittance into a separated soul: and the former is as impossible; it being likewise proved, that at her first instant of her separation, she knoweth all things: wherefore, we may hence confidently conclude, that no change of mind, (that is no change at all) can happen to an abstracted soul.  
And thus, 
5 That temporal sins are justly punished with eternal pain●s.  by discourse, we may arrive, to quit ourselves easily of that famous objection, so much pestering Christian Religion; how God, can in justice impose eternal pains upon a soul, for one sin, acted in a short space of time. For we see, it followeth by the necessary course of nature, that if a man die in a disorderly affection to any thing, as to his chief good, he eternally remaineth by the necessity of his own nature, in the same affection: and there is no imparity, that to eternal sin, there should be imposed eternal punishment.    

THE CONCLUSION.  
AND now I hope, I may confidently say, I have been as good as my word: and I doubt not, but my Reader will find it so, if he spend but half as much time in perusing these two treatises, as the composing them hath cost me. They are too nice (and indeed, unreasonable) who expect to attain without pains, unto that, which hath cost others years of toil. Let them remember the words of holy job, that wisdom is not found in the land of those, that live at their ease. Let them cast their eyes on every side round about them, and then tell me, if they meet with any employment, that may be compared to the attaining unto these, and such like principles; whereby a man is enabled to govern himself understandingly and knowingly, towards the happiness, both of the next life and of this; and to comprehend the wiseman's theme; what is good for a man in the days of his vanity, whiles he playeth the stranger under the sun. Let us fear God's judgements. Let us carefully pursue the hidden bounties, he hath treasured up for us. Let us thank him for the knowledge he hath given us: and admire the excellency of Christian Religion; which so plainly teacheth us that, unto which it is so extreme hard to arrive by natural means. Let us bless him, that we are borne unto it. And let us sing to him; That it is he, who preacheth his doctrine to jacob, and giveth his laws to Israël. He hath not done the like to all nations; nor hath he manifested his secret truths unto them.  
BUT before I cut of this third, which hath cost me so much pains to spin out to this Length; I must crave my Readers leave, to make some use of it, for my own behoof. Hitherto my discourse hath been directed to him: now I shall entreat his patience, that I may reflect it in a word or two upon myself. And as I am sure I have profited myself not a little, by talking all this while to him, that obliging me to polish my conceptions with more care, and to rang● them into better order, then whiles they were but rude meditations with in my own breast; so I hope, that a little, conversation with myself upon this important subject, (which is to be studied for use, and practise; not for speculative science) may prove advantageous unto him; if his warmed thoughts have tuned his soul to such a key, as I am sure these considerations have wound up mine unto.  
To thee than my soul, I now address my speech. For since by long debate, and toilsome rowing against the impetuous tides of ignorance, and false apprehensions, which overflow thy banks, and hurry thee headlong down the stream, whilst thou art imprisoned in thy clayie mansion; we have with much ado arrived to aim art some little atom of thy vast greatness; and with the hard and tough blows of strict and wary reasoning, we have strucken out some few sparks of that glorious light, which environeth and swelleth thee, or rather, which is thee: it is high time, I should retire myself out of the turbulent and slippery field of eager strife and litigious disputation, to make my accounts with thee; where no outward noise may distract us, nor any way intermeddle between us, excepting only that eternal verity, which by thee shineth upon my faint and gloomy eyes; and in which I see, whatsoever doth or can content thee in me. I have discovered, that thou (my soul) wilt survive me: and so survive me, as thou wilt also survive the mortality, and changes which belong to me; and which are but accidentary to thee, merely because thou art in me. Then shall the vicissitude of time, and the inequality of dispositions in thee, be turned into the constancy of immortality; and into the evenness of one being, never to end, and never to receive a change, or succession to better or worse.  
When my eye of contemplation, hath been fixed upon this bright sun, as long as it is able to endure the radiant beams of it; whose redundant light veyleth the looker on, with a dark mist: let me turn it for a little space, upon the strait passage, and narrow gullet, through which thou strivest (my soul) with faint and weary steps, during thy hazardous voyage upon the earth, to make thyself a way: and let me examine, what comparison there is, between thy two conditions; the present one, wherein thou now findest thyself immersed in flesh and blood; and the future state that will betid thee, when thou shalst be melted out of this gross oore, and refined from this mean alloy. Let my term of life, be of a thousand long years; longer than ever happened to our aged forefathers, who stored the earth with their numerous progeny, by out living their skill to number the diffused multitudes, that swarmed from their liones: let me, during this long space, be sole Emperor and absolute Lord, of all the huge globe of land and water, encompassed with Adam's offspring: let all my subjects lie prostrate at my feet, with obedience and awe, distilling their activest thoughts, in studying day and night to invent new pleasures and dilights for me: let nature conspire with them, to give me a constant and vigorous health; a perpetual spring of youth, that may to the full, relish whatsoever good all they can fancy: let gravest Prelates, and greatest Princes, serve instead of flatterers to heighten my joys; and yet those joys, be raised above their power of flattery: let the wisemen of this vast family (whose sentiments, are maxims and oracles, to govern the world's beliefs and actions) esteem, reverence, and adore me in the secretest, and the most recluse withdrawings of their hearts: let all the wealth, which to this very day, hath ever been torn out of the bowels of the earth; and all the treasures, which the sea hideth from the view of greedy men, swell round about me; whilst all the world besides, lieth gaping to receive the crumbs, that fall neglected by me, from my full loaden table: let my imagination be as vast, as the unfathomed Universe; and let my felicity be as accomplished, as my imagination can reach unto; so that wallowing in pleasure, I be not able to think how to increase it, or what to wish for more, then that which I possess and enjoy.  
Thus when my thoughts are at a stand, and can raise my present happiness no higher; let me call to mind, how this long lease of pleasant days, will in time come to an end: this bottom of a thousand joyful years, will at length be unwound, and nothing remain of it: and then (my soul) thy infinitely longerlived Immortality will succeed; thy never ending date, will begin a new account, impossible to be summed up, and beyond all proportion infinitely exceeding the happiness, we have rudely aimed to express: so that no comparison can be admitted between them. For, suppose first that such it were, as the least and shortest of those manifold joys, which swell it to that height we have fancied, were equal to all the contentment thou shalst enjoy in a whole million of years; yet millions of years may be so often multiplied, as at length, the slender and limited contentments supposed in them, may equalyse, and outgo the whole heap of overflowing bliss, raised so high, in the large extent of these thousand happy years. Which when they are cast into a total sum; and that I compare it, with the unmeasurable eternity, which only measureth thee; then I see, that all this huge product of Algebraicall multiplication, appeareth as nothing, in respect of thy remaining, and never ending suruivance; and is less, than the least point in regard of the immense Universe. But then, if it be true (as it is most true) that thy least spark and moment of real happiness, in that blessed eternity thou hopest for, is infinitely greater, and nobler, than the whole mass of fancied joys, of my thousand years' life here on earth; how infinitely will the value of thy duration, exceed all proportion, in regard of the felicity, I had imagined myself? And seeing there is no proportion between them, let me sadly reflect upon my own present condition: let me examine what it is, I so busily, and anxiously, employ my thoughts and precious time upon: let me consider my own courses, and whither they lead me: let me take a survey of the lives, and actions, of the greatest part of the world, which make so loud a noise about my ears: and then may I justly sigh out from the bottom of my anguished hart; to what purpose have I hitherto lived? To what purpose are all these millions of toilsome aunts, that live and labour about me? To what purpose were Caesar's and Alexander's? To what purpose Aristotle's and Archimedeses? How miserably foolish are those conquering tyrants, that divide the world with their lawless swords? What senseless idiots those acute Philosophers, who tear men's wits in pieces, by their different ways, and subtle Logic; striving to show men beatitudes in this world, and seeking for that, which if they had found, were but a nothing of a nothing in respect of true beatitude? He only is truly wise, who neglecting all that flesh and blood desireth, endeavoureth to purchase at any rate this felicity, which thy suruivance promiseth: the least degree of which, so far surmounteth all the heaps, which the giants of the earth are able to raise, by throwing hills upon hills, and striwing in vain to scale and reach those eternities, which reside above the skies. Alas, how fond doth mankind suffer itself to be deluded? How true it is, that the only thing necessary, proveth the only thing that is neglected? Look up my soul, and fix thine eye upon that truth, which eternal light maketh so clear unto thee, shining upon thy face with so great evidence, as defyeth the noontide sun, in its greatest brightness. And this it is, that every action of thine, be it never so slight, is mainly mischievous; or be it never so bedecked, with those specious considerations, which the wise men of the world judge important, is foolish, absurd, and unworthy of a man; and unworthy of one that understandeth, and acknowledgeth thy dignity; if in it there be any speck; or if through it, there appear any spark of those mean and flat motives, which with a false bias, draw any way aside, from attaining that happiness, we expect in thee. That happiness, aught to be the end, and mark we level at: that, the rule and model of all our actions: that, the measure of every circumstance, of every atom, of whatsoever we bestow so precious a thing upon, as the employment of thee is.  
But we must not so slightly pass over the intenseness and vehemence of that felicity, which thou (my soul) shalt enjoy, when thou art severed from thy benumbing compartner. I see evidently, that thou dost not survive, a simple and dull essence; but art replenished with a vast and incomprehensible extent of riches and delight within thyself. I see that golden chain, which here by long discourses, filleth huge volumes of books, and diveth into the hidden natures of several bodies; in thee resumed into one circle or link, which containeth in itself the large scope of whatsoever screwing discourse can reach unto. I see it comprehend, and master the whole world of bodies. I see every particular nature, as it were embossed out to the life, in thy celestial garment. I see every solitary substance ranked in its due place and order, not crushed or thronged by the multitude of its fellows; but each of them in its full extent▪ in the full propriety of every part and effect of it; and distinguished into more divisions, than ever nature severed it into. In thee I see an infinite multitude enjoy place enough. I see, that neither height, nor profundity, nor longitude, nor latitude, are able to exempt themselves from thy diffused powers: they fathom all; they comprehend all; they master all; they enrich thee with the stock of all; and thou thyself art all, and somewhat more than all; and yet, now but one of all. I see, that everyone of this all, in thee increaseth the strength, by which thou knowest any other of the same all: and all, increaseth the knowledge of all, by a multiplication beyond the skill of Arithmetic; being (in its kind) absolutely infinite; by having a nature, that is incapable of being either infinite or finite. I see again, that those things which have not knowledge, are situated in the lowest, and meanest rank of creatures; and are in no wise comparable to those which know. I see, there is no pleasure at all, no happiness, no felicity, but by knowledge, and in knowledge. Experience teacheth me, how the purer, and nobler race of mankind, adoreth in their hearts, this idol of knowledge, and scorneth what ever else they seem to court, and to be fond of. And I see, that this excess of sea of knowledge which is in thee, groweth not by the succession of one thought after an other; but is like a full swollen ocean, never ebbing on any coast, but equally pushing at all its bounds, and tumbling out its flowing waves on every side, and into every ereche; so that every where it maketh high tide. Or like a pure sun, which from all parts of it, shooteth its radiant beams with a like extremity of violence. And I see likewise, that this admirable knowledge, is not begotten and conserved in thee, by the accidentary help of defective causes; but is rooted in thyself; is steeped in thy own essence, like an unextinguishable source of a perpetually streaming fire; or like the living head of an everrunning spring; beholden to none, out of thyself, saving only to thy Almighty Creator; and begging of none; but being in thyself all that of which thou shouldest beg.  
This then (my soul) being thy lot; and such a hieght of pleasure being reserved for thee; and such an extremity of felicity, with in a short space attending thee; can any degenerate thought, ever gain strength enough, to shake the evidence which these considerations implant and rivett in thee? Can any dull oblivion deface this so lively and so beautiful image? Or can any length of time, draw in thy memory a veil between it, and thy present attention? Can any perversity, so distort thy strait eyes, that thou shouldest not look always fixed upon this mark; and level thy aim directly at this white? How is it possible, that thou canst brook to live, and not expire presently, thereby to ingulfe thyself, and be throughly imbibed with such an overflowing bliss? Why dost thou not break the walls and chains of thy flesh and blood, and leap into this glorious liberty? Here Stoics, you are to use your swords. Upon these considerations, you may justify the letting out the blood, which by your discourses, you seem so prodigal of. To die upon these terms, is not to part with that, which you fond call a happy life; feeding yourselves, and flattering your hearers with empty words: but rather it is, to plunge yourselves into a felicity, you were never able to imagine, or to frame in your misguided thoughts any scantling of.  
But nature pulleth me by the ear, and warneth me from being so wrongful to her, as to conceive, that so wise a governess should to no advantage, condemn mankind to so long a banishment, as the ordinary extent of his dull life, and wearisome pilgrimage here under the sun reacheth unto. Can we imagine, she would allow him so much lazy time, to effect nothing in? Or can we suspect, that she intended him no further advantage, than what an abortive child arriveth unto in his mother's womb? For whatsoever the nets and toils of discourse can circled in; all that he, who but once knoweth that himself is, can attain unto as fully, as he that is enriched with the science of all things in the world. For, the connexion of things, is so linked together, that proceeding from any one, you reach the knowledge of many; and from many, you cannot fail of attaining unto all: so that a separated soul, which doth but know herself, can not choose but know her body too; and from her body, she cannot miss in proceeding from the causes of them both, as far as immediate causes do proceed from others over them: and as little can she be ignorant, of all the effects of those causes she reacheth unto. And thus, all that huge mass of knowledge, and happiness, which we have considered in our last reflection, amounteth to no more, than the seeliest soul buried in warm blood, can and will infallibly attain unto, when its time cometh. We may then assure ourselves, that just nature hath provided and designed a greater measure of such felicity for longer livers: and so much greater, as may well be worth the pains and hazards, of so miserable and tedious a passage, as here (my soul) thou strugglest through. For certainly, if the dull percussion, which by nature's institution, hammereth out a spiritual soul from gross flesh and blood, can achieve so wondrous an effect, by such blunt instruments, as are used in the contriving of a man: how can it be imagined, but that fifty or a hundred years beating upon far more subtle elements, refined in so long a time, as a child is becoming a man, and arriving to his perfect discourse, must necessarily forge out in such a soul, a strange and admirable excellency, above the unlicked form of an abortive embryo? Surely, those innumerable strokes (every one of which maketh a strong impression in the soul, upon whom they beat) cannot choose but work a mighty difference, in the subject that receiveth them, changing it strangely from the condition it was in, before they begun to new mould it. What if I should say, the odds between two such souls, may peradventure be not unlike the difference, between the wits and judgements of the subtlest Philosopher that ever was, and of the dullest child or idiot living. But this comparison falleth too short by far: even so much, that there is no resemblance or proportion between the things compared: for as the excess of great numbers over one an other, drowneth the excess of small ones, and maketh it not considerable, in respect of theirs, although they should be in the same proportion; so the advantages of a soul, forged to its highest perfection in a man's body, by its long abode there, and by its making right use of that precious time allowed it; must needs, (in positive value, though not in geometrical proportion) infinitely exceed, when it shall be delivered out of prison, the advantages, which the newly hatched soul of an abortive infant shall acquire, at the breaking of its chains. In this case, I believe no man would be of Caesar's mind; when he wished to be rather the first man in a contemptible poor village, he passed through among the desert mountains, than the second man in Rome. Let us suppose, the wealth of the richest man in that barren habitation, to be one hundred Crowns; and that the next to him in substance, had but half as much as he: in like manner, in that opulent city, the head of the world, where millions were as familiar as pence in other places, let the excess of the richest man's wealth, be but (as in the former) double over his, that cometh next unto him; and there you shall find, that if the poorest of the two, be worth fifty millions, the other hath fifty millions more than he: whereas the former's petty treasure, exceedeth his neighbours but by fifty crowns. What proportion is there, in the common estimation of affairs, between that trivial sum, and fifty millions? Much less is there, between the excellency of a separated soul, first perfected in its body, and an other that is set loose into complete liberty, before its body arrived in a natural course, to be delivered into this world, and by its eyes to enjoy the light of it. The change of every soul at its separation from the body, to a degree of perfection, above what it enjoyed in the body, is in a manner infinite: and by a like infinite proportion, every degree of perfection it had in the body, is also then multiplied: what a vast product then of infinity, must necessarily be raised, by this multiplying instant of the souls attaining liberty, in a well moulded soul; infinitely beyond that perfection, which the soul of an infant dying before it be borne, arriveth unto? And yet we have determined that to be a in manner infinite. Here our skill of Arithmetic and proportions faileth us. Here we find infinite excess, over what we also know to be infinite. How this can be, the feeble eyes of our limited understanding, are too dull to penetrate into: but that it is so, we are sure: the rigour of discourse, convinceth and necessarily concludeth it. That assureth us, that since every impression upon the soul, whiles it is in its body, maketh a change in it; were there no others made, but merely the iterating of those acts, which brought it from ignorance to knowledge; that soul, upon which a hundred of those acts had wrought, must have a hundred degrees of advantage over an other, upon which only one had beaten; though by that one, it had acquired perfect knowledge of that thing: and then in the separation, these hundred degrees, being each of them infinitely multiplied, how infinitely must such a soul exceed in that particular, (though we know not how) the knowledge of the other soul; which though it be perfect in its kind, yet had but one act to forge it out? When we arrive to understand the difference of knowledge, between the superior and inferior ranks of intelligences; among whom, the lowest knoweth as much as the highest; and yet the knowledge of the highest, is infinitely more perfect and admirable, than the knowledge of his inferiors: then, and not before, we shall throughly comprehend this mystery. In the mean time, it is enough for us, that we are sure, that thus it fareth with souls: and that by how much the excellency and perfection of an all knowing and all comprehending soul, delivered out of the body of a wretched embryo, is above the vileness of that heavy lump of flesh, it lately quitted in his mother's womb; even by so m●●h, and according to the same proportion, must the excellency of a complete soul (completed in its body) be in a pitch above the adorable majesty, wisdom, and augustnesse, of the greatest and most admired oracle in the world, living embodied in flesh and blood. Which as it is in a height, and eminency over such an excellent and admirable man, infinitely beyond the excess of such a man, over that silly lump of flesh, which composeth the most contemptible idiot or embryo; so likewise, is the excess of it, over the soul of an abortive embryo, (though by the separation, grown never so knowing, and never so perfect) infinitely greater, than the dignity and wisdom of such a man, is above the feebleness and misery of an new animated child. Therefore have patience my soul: repine not at thy longer stay here in this vale of misery, where thou art banished from those unspeakable joys thou seest at hand before thee; from which nothing but the frail walls of rotten flesh severeth thee. Thou shalst have an overflowing reward for thy enduring and patienting in this thy darksome prison. Deprive not thyself through mischievous haste, of the great hopes and admirable felicity that attend thee, canst thou but with due temper stay for it. Be content to let thy stock lie out awhile at interest; thy profits will come in vast proportions; and every year, every day, every hour, will pay thee interest upon interest: and the longer it runneth on, the more it multiplieth: and in the account thou shalst find, if thou proceedest as thou shouldest, that one moment oftentimes bringeth in a greater increase unto thy stock of treasure, than the many years thou didst live and trade before: and the longer thou livest, the thicker will these moments arrive unto thee. In like manner as in Arithmetical numeration, every addition of the least figure, multiplieth the whole sum it findeth. Here thou wilt prove how true that rich man said, who of his gains pronounced, that he had gotten little with great labour, and great sums with little: so if thou bestowest well thy time, thy latter sums will bring thee in huge accounts of gain, upon small expense of pains or employments; whereas thy first beginnings are toilsome and full of pain, and bring in but slender profit.)  
By this time, my soul, I am sure thou art satisfied, that the excess of knowledge and of pleasure, which in the next life thou shalt enjoy, is vastly beyond any thou art capable of here. But how may we estimate the just proportion they have to one on other? Or rather is not the pleasure of a separated soul, so infinitely beyond all that can be relished by one embodied here in clay, that there is no proportion between them? At the least, though we are not able to measure the one, let us do our best to aim and guess at the improportion between them; and rejoice when we find that it is beyond our reach to conceive or imagine any thing, nigh the truth and the huge excess of thy good (my soul) over the most I am capable of in this world. It is agreed, that the vehemence and intenseness of ●hy pleasure, is proportionable to the activity, power, and energy of the subject, which is affected with such pleasure; and to the gravitation, bend, and greatness, that such a subject hath to the object that delighteth it. Now to rove at the force and activity, wherewith a separated soul weigheth and striveth to join itself, to what its nature carrieth it unto; let us begin with considering the proportions of celerity and forcibleness, wherewith heavy bodies move downwards. I see a pound weight in one scale of the balance, weigheth up the other empty one with great celerity. But if in to that you imagine a million of pounds to be put, you may well conceive, that this great excess, would carry up the single pound weight with so much violence and speed, as would hardly afford your eye liberty to observe the velocity of the motion. Let me multiply this million of pounds, by the whole globe of the earth; by the vast extent of the great orb, made by the suns, or earth's motion about the centre of the world; by the incomprehensibility of that immense store-house of matter and of bodies, which is designed in lump by the name of the Universe; of which we know no more, but that it is beyond all hope of being known, during this mortal life. Thus when I have heaped together a bulk of weight, equal to this unwieldy machine; let me multiply the strength of its velocity, and pressure over the least atom imaginable in nature, as far beyond the limits of gravity, as the ingenious skill, wherewith Archimedes numbered the least grains of sand that would fill the world, can carry it: and when I have thus wearied myself, and exhausted the power of Arithmetic, and of Algebra, I find there is still a proportion between that atom and this unutterable weight: I see it is all quantitative; it is all finite; and all this excess vannisheth to nothing, and becometh invisible (like twinkling stars, at the rising of the much brighter sun) as soon as the lowest and the meanest substance shineth out of that orb, where they reside that scorn divisibilility, and are out of the reach of quantity and matter. How vehement then must the activity and energy be, wherewith so puissant a substance shooteth itself to its desired object? and when it enjoyeth it, how violent must the ecstasy and transport be, wherewith it is delighted? How is it possible then for my narrow hart, to frame an apprehension of the infinite excess of thy pleasure (my soul) over all the pleasure this limited world can afford, which is all measured by such petty proportions? How should I stamp a figure of thy immense greatness, into my material imagination? Here I lose my power of speaking, because I have too much to speak of: I must become silent and dumb, because all the words and language I can use, express not the thousandeth, nor the millioneth part, of what I evidently see to be true. All I can say is, that whatsoever I think or imagine, it is not that: and that it is not like any of those things; unto some of which unless it be like, it is impossible for me to make any proportion or similitude unto it. What then shall I do, but lay myself down in mine own shadow, and there rejoice that thou art a light so great, as I am not able to endure the dazzling splendour of thy rays: that thy pleasure is so excessive, as no part of it can enter into my circumscribed hart, without dilating it so wide, that it must break in sunder: and that thy happiness is so infinite, as the highest pitch I can hope for to glut myself withal, during this dark night of my tedious pilgrimage here on earth, is to see evidently, that it is impossible for me in this life, to frame any scantling of it; much less, to know how great it is. Shall I then once again presume to break out into impatience, at my delay of so great bliss, and cry out, that I am content with the meanest share of this exuberant felicity? I care not for the exaggerations which a longer life may heap up unto it. I am sure here is sufficient to swell my hart beyond itself, to satisfy my thirsty soul, to dissolve and melt all my powers▪ and to transform me totally into a selfeblessed creature. Away, away all tedious hopes, not only of this life, but even of all increase in the next. I will leap boldly into that fountain of bliss, and cast myself headlong into that sea of felicity; where I can neither apprehend shallow waters, nor fear I shall be so little immersed and drowned, as to meet with any shelf or dry ground, to moderate and stint my happiness. A self activity, and unbounded extent, and essence free from time and place, assure me sufficiently, that I need desire no more. Which way soever I look, I lose my sight, in seeing an infinity round about me. Length without points: Breadth without Lines: Depth without any surface. All content, all pleasure, all restless rest, all an unquietness and transport of delight, all an ecstasy of fruition.  
Happy forgetfulness, how deeply am I obliged to thee, for making room for this soul ravishing contemplation, by removing this whiles all other images of things far from me? I would to God thou mightest endure, whiles I endure; that so I might be drowned in this present thought, and never wake again, but into the enjoying, and accompletion of my present inflamed desires. But alas, that may not be. The eternal light whom my soul and I have chosen for Arbiter, to determine unto us what is most expedient for us, will not permit it. We must return; and that into fears and miseries: For as a good life breedeth increase of happiness, so doth an evil one, heap up Iliads of woe. First (my soul) before I venture, we should be certain, that thy parting from this life, waft thee over to assured happiness: For thou well knowest, that there are noxious actions, which deprave and infect the soul, whiles it is forging and moulding here it its body, and tempering for its future being: and if thou shouldest sally hence in such a perverse disposition, unhappiness would betide thee instead of thy presumed bliss. I see some men so ravenous after those pleasures, which cannot be enjoyed out of the body, that if those impotent desires accompany their souls into eternity, I can not doubt of their enduring an eternity of misery: I can not doubt of their being tormented with such a dire extremity, of unsatisfyable desire and violent grief, as were able to tear all this world into pieces, were it converted into one hart; and to rive in sunder, any thing less than the necessity of contradiction. How high the bliss of a well governed soul is above all power of quantity, so extreme must the ravenous inclemency, and vulturelike cruelty, be of such an uncompassable desire gnawing eternally upon the soul; for the same reason holdeth in both: and which way soever the gravitation and desires of a separated soul do carry it, it is hurried on with a like impetuosity and unlimited activity. Let me then cast an heedful and wary eye, upon the actions of the generality of mankind, from whence I may guess at the weal or woe, of their future state: and if I find that the greatest number weigheth down in the scale of misery, have I not reason to fear least my lot should prove among theirs? For the greatest part sweepeth along with it every particular, that hath not some particular reason to exempt it from the general law. Instead then of a few that wisely settle their hearts on legitimate desires, what multitudes of wretched men do I see; some hungry after flesh and blood; others gaping after the empty wind of honour and vanity; others breathing nothing but ambitious thoughts; others grasping all, and grovelling upon heaps of melted earth? So that they put me all in a horror, and make me fear, lest very few they be, that are exempted from the dreadful fate of this incomprehensible misery, to which I see, and grieve to see, the whole face of mankind desperately turned. May it not then be my sad chance, to be one of their unhappy number? Be content then, fond man, to live. Live yet, till thou hast first secured the passage which thou art but once to venture on. Be sure before thou throwest thyself into it, to put thy soul into the scales: balance all thy thoughts; examine all thy inclinations; put thyself to the rest, try what dross, what pure gold is in thyself: and what thou findest wanting, be sure to supply, before nature calleth thee to thy dreadful account. It is soon done, if thou be'st what thy nature dictateth thee to be. Follow but evident reason and knowledge, and thy wants are supplied, thy accounts are made up. The same evershining truth, which maketh thee see that two and two are four, will show thee without any contradiction, how all these base allurements are vain and idle; and that there is no comparison between the highest of them, and the meanest of what thou mayest hope for, hast thou but strength to settle thy hart by the steerage of this most evident science; in this very moment, thou mayst be secure. But the hazard is great, in missing to examine thyself truly and throughly. And if thou miscarry there, thou art lost for ever. Apply therefore all thy care, all thy industry to that. Let that be thy continual study, and thy perpetual entertainment. Think nothing else worth the knowing, nothing else worth the doing, but screwing up thy soul unto this height, but directing it by this level, by this rule. Then fear not, nor admit the least doubt of thy being happy, when thy time shall come; and that time shall have no more power over thee. In the mean season, spare no pains, forbear no diligence, employ all exactness, burn in summer, freeze in winter, watch by night, and labour by day, join months to months, and entail years upon years. Think nothing sufficient to prevent so main a hazard; and deem nothing long or tedious in this life, to purchase so happy an eternity. The first discoverers of the Indies, cast themselves among swarms of maneaters; they fought and struggled with unknown waves; so horrid ones, that oftentimes they persuaded themselves they climbed up mountains of waters, and strait again were precipitated headlong down between the cloven sea, upon the foaming sand, from whence they could not hope for a resource: hunger was their food; snakes and serpents were their dainties; sword and fire were their daily exercise: and all this, only to be masters of a little gold, which after a short possession was to quit them for ever. Our searchers after the Northern passage, have cut their way through mountains of ice, more affrightful and horrid, than the Symplegades. They have imprisoned themselves in half year nights; they have chained themselves in perpetual stone cleaving colds: some have been found closely embracing one an other, to conserve as long as they were able, a little fuel in their freezing hearts, at length petrifyed by the hardness of that unmerciful winter: others have been made the prey of unhuman men, more savage than the wildest beasts: others have been never found nor heard of, so that surely they have proved the food of the ugly monsters of that vast icy sea: and these have been able and understanding men. What motives, what hopes had these daring men? What gains could they promise themselves, to countervail their desperate attempts? They aimed not so much as at the purchase of any treasure for themselves, but ●eerely to second the desires of those that set them on work; or to fill the mouths of others, from whence some few crumbs might fall to them. What is required at thy hands (my soul) like this? And yet the hazard thou art to avoid, and the wealth thou art to attain unto, incomparably oversetteth all that they could hope for. Live then and be glad of long and numerous years; that like ripe fruit, thou mayst drop securely into that passage, which duly entered into, shall deliver thee into an eternity of bliss, and of unperishable happiness.  
And yet (my soul) be thou not too soar aghast, with the apprehension of the dreadful hazard thou art in. Let not a tormenting fear of the dangers that surround thee, make thy whole life here bitter and uncomfortable to thee. Let the serious and due consideration of them, arm thee with caution and with wisdom, to prevent miscarriage by them. But to look upon them with horror and affrightednesse, would frieze thy spirits, and benumb thy actions, and peradventure engulfe thee through pusillanimity in as great mischiefs, as thou seekest to avoid. 'tis true, the harm which would accrue from misgoverning thy passage out of this life, is unspeakable, is unimaginable. But why shouldest thou take so deep thought of the hazard thou runnest therein, as though the difficulty of avoiding it were so extreme, as might amount to an impossibility. I allow, the thoughts that arm thee with wise caution to secure thyself, cannot be too deep nor too serious; but when thou hast providently stored thyself with such, call thy spirits manfully about thee: and to encourage thee to fight confidently, or rather to secure thee of victory, so thou wilt not forsake thyself, turn thine eyes round about thee, and consider how wise nature, that hath prescribed an end and period unto all her plants, hath furnished them all with due and orderly means to attain thereunto: and though particulars sometimes miscarry in their journey (since contingence is entailed to all created things) yet in the generality, and for the most part, they all arrive unto the scope she leveleth them at. Why then should we imagine, that so judicious and far looking an Architect, whom we see so accurate in his meaner works, should have framed this Masterpiece of the world, to perish by the way, and never to attain unto that great end, for which he made it; even after he is prepared and armed with all advantagiouse circumstances agreeable to his nature. That artificer, we know, deserveth the style of silly, who frameth such tools, as fail in there performance, when they are applied to the action for which they were intended. We see all sorts of trees for the most part bear their fruit in the due season; which is the end they are designed unto, and the last and highest emolument they are made to afford us. Few beasts we see there are, but contribute to our service what we look for at their hands. The swine affordeth good flesh, the sheep good wool, the cow good milk, the sable warm and soft fur, the ox bendeth his sturdy neck to the yoke, the spiritful horse dutifully beareth the soldier, and the sinewy mule and stronger camel convey weighty merchandise. Why then shall even the better sort of mankind, the chief, the top, the head, of all the works of nature, be apprehended to miscarry from his end in so vast a proportion, as that it should be deemed in a manner impossible, even for those few (for so they are in respect of the other numerous multitude of the worse sort) to attain unto that felicity which is natural unto them; Thou (my soul) art the form, and that supreme part of me, which giveth being both to me and to my body: who then can doubt, but that all the rest of me, is framed fitting and serviceable for thee? For what reason were there, that thou shouldest be implanted in a soil, which can not bear thy fruit? The form of a hog, I see, is engrafted in a body fit and appropriated for a swine's operations: the form of a horse, of a lion, of a wolf, all of them have their organs proportioned to the mastering piece within them, their soul. And is it credible, that only man, should have his inferior parts raised so highly in rebellion against his soul, the greatest Mistress (beyond proportion) among all forms, as that it shall be impossible for her to suppress their mutinies, though she guide herself never so exactly by the prescripts of that rule, which is borne with her? Can it be suspected, that his form, which is infinitely mounted above the power of matter, should through the very necessity and principles of its own nature, be more liable to contingency, than those that are engulfed and drowned in it; since we know, that contingency, defectibility, and change, are the lame children of gross and misshapen matter?)  
Alas it is too true, that nature is in us unhappily wrested from her original and due course. We find by sad experience, that although her depravation be not so total, as to blind entirely the eye of Reason she seeth by, yet it is so great, as to carry vehemently our affections quite cross to what she proposeth us as best. Howsoever, let the incentives of flesh and blood be never so violent, to tumble humane nature down the hill, yet if a contrary force, more efficacious than they with all their turbulent and misty steames, do impel it an otherway, it must needs obey that stronger power. Let us then examine whose motives, the souls, or the senses, in their own nature, work most efficaciously in man. We are sure, that what pleasure he receiveth, he receiveth by means of his soul; even all corporeal pleasure: for, be the working object never so agreeable and pleasing unto him, he reapeth thence small delight, if in the mean time, his soul's attention be carried an other way from it. Certainly then, those things must affect the soul most powerfully, which are connatural unto her, and which she seizeth upon and relisheth immediately; rather than those impure ones, which come sofisticated to her, through the muddy channels of the senses. And accordingly, all experience teacheth us, that her pleasures, when they are fully savoured, are much stronger than the pleasures of our sense. Observe but the different comportements of an ambitious, and of a sensual man: and you will evidently perceive far stronger motions, and more vehement strains in the former, who hath his desires bend to the satisfaction of his mind; then in the other, who aimeth but at the pleasures of his body. Let us look upon the common face of mankind; and we shall see the most illustrious and noble part, taken with learning, with power, with honour; and the other part, which maketh sense their idol, moveth in a lower and base orb under the others; and is in a servile degree to them. Since than humane nature is of itself more inclined to the contentments of the active mind, then of the dull sense; who can doubt but that the way of those pure contentments, must be far sweeter than the gross and troubled streams of sensual pleasures: which if it be, certainly man in his own nature, is more apt to follow that: and when he chanceth to wander out of that smooth and easy road, his steps are painful and wearisome ones: and if he do not presently perceive them such, it is, because it fareth with him, as with those that walk in their sleep, and stray into rough and stony passages, or among thistles and briars; whiles peradventure some illuding dream bewitcheth their fancies, and persuadeth them they are in some pleasant garden; till waking (if at least they wake before they fall into a deadly precipice) they find their feet all gored, and their bodies all scratched and torn. If any sensual man should doubt of this great truth, and find it hard to persuade himself, that intellectual pleasures (which to his depraved taste, seem cold and flat ones) should be more active and intense, than those feculent ones, which so violently transport him; let him but exercise himself a while in those entertainments which delight the mind, taking leave, during that space, of those unruly ones, which agitate the body; and continue doing thus, till by long practice, he hath made them easy and habituated himself unto them: and I will engage my word, that he will find this change so advantageous to him, even in contentment and delight, that he will not easily be brought back to his former course of life. Experience showeth us, that whatsoever is long customary to us, turneth into our nature; so much, that even diseases and poisons by diuturne use, do mould and temper to themselves those bodies, which are habituated to them; in such sort, that those pests of nature must be kept on foot, and fed upon for our subsistence. How much more than must the most connatural exercise of mental pleasure, turn so substantially into our being, that after some good practice in it, we shall not be able, with out great struggling and reluctation, to live without it?  
The violence of fruition in those foul puddles of flesh and blood, presently glutteth with satiety, and is attended with annoy and with dislike: and the often using and repeating it, weareth away that edge of pleasure, which only maketh it sweet and valuable, even to them that set their hearts upon it; and nothing heighteneth it, but an irritation by a convenient hunger and abstinence. Contrariwise, in the soul, the greater and more violent the pleasure is, the more intense and vehement the fruition is▪ and the oftener it is repeated, so much the greater appetite and desire we have, to return unto the same; and nothing provoketh us more, than the entire and absolute fruition of it. If a sudden change from one extreme of flesh and blood, to the other opposite pole of spiritual delights and entertainments, seem harsh to him, whose thoughts by long assuefaction, are glued to corporeal objects; let him begin with gently bridling in his inferior motions under a fair rule of government: If he can not presently suppress and totally mortify their clamorous desires, let him at the least moderate and steer them according to the bent of reason. (If we will but follow this course which nature teacheth us, to heighten even our sensual delights and pleasures, by reasonable moderation of them to their own advantage; we shall find her so kind a mother to us, that of herself she will at length quelle and disincomber us of all our enemies. If we but temperately attend her work, she will quietly waft us over to our desired end, to our beloved happiness. In a few years, by boiling away our unruly heat, she will abate, and in the end quite wear away the sense of those transporting pleasures, we used to take so much delight in the fruition of. With in a while, rheums will so clog our tongue and palates, that we shall but flatly relish the most poi●●ant meats. Our dulled ears will no longer devour with delight, the ravishing sound of sweet harmonies. Our dim eyes will carry to our heavy fancy but confused news of any beautiful and pleasing objects. Our stopped nosethriles will afford no passage for spiritefull perfumes, to warm and recreate our moist and drowsy brain. In a word, nature will ere long, warn us to take a long farewell of all those contentments and delights, which require a strong, vigorous, and athletike habit of body to enjoy. She will show us, by setting our graves before our eyes, how vain this glittering fancy of honour is: how unprofitable the staff of power to underprop our falling being: how more burdensome than helpful are those massy heaps of gold and silver, which when we have, the greatest use we make of them, is but to look upon them, and court them with our dazzled eyes; whiles they encompass us with armies of traitors and of hungry wolves, to tear them from us, and us in pieces for their sake. Thus will nature of herself in a short time, dull those weapons that offend us, and destroy the enemies of those verities that shine upon us. Courage then, my Soul, and neither fear to live, nor yet desire to die. If thou continuest in thy body, it is easy for thee, and sweet and contentsome, to heap up treasures for eternity. And if thou partest from it, thy hopes are great and fair, that the journey thou art going, is to a world of unknown felicity. Take hart then, and march on with a secure diligence, and expect the hand of bounteous nature, to dispose of thee, according as she hath wisely and benignly provided for thee. And fear not but that if thou hast kept a reasonable amity with her, she will pass thee to where thou shallest never more be in danger of jarring with her; nor of feeling within thyself the unkind blows of contrary powers fight in thee, whiles thou bleedest with the wounds that each side giveth; nor of changing thy once gained happiness into a contrary condition, according to the vicissitudes of all humane affairs. But shallest For ever, be swelled to the utmost extent of thy infinite nature, with this torrent, with this abyss of joy, pleasure, and delight.  
But here (my Soul) well mayest thou stand amazed at this great word Forever. What will this be, when fleeting time shall be converted into permanent eternity? Sharpen thy sight to look into this vast profundity. Suppose that half an hour, were resumed into one instant or indivisible of time: what a strange kind of durance would that be? I see that half an hour, is divisible without end, into halves, and halves of halves, and quarters of quarters; and after my riades of divisions, no parcel is so little, but that it hath an infinite superproportion to an indivisible instant. What a prodigious thing than must it be, to have an instant equalise half an hour? Were it but some ordinary notion or quiddity, as of magnitude, of place, of activity, or the like, in which this excellency of an indivisibles equalising a large extent, were considered; my fantasy would offer to wrestle with it; and peradventure, by strong abstraction, and by deep retirement into the closet of judgement, I might hazard to frame some likeness of it. But that wherein this multiplication is, is the noblest, the highest, and the root of all other notions, it is Being and Existence itself. I myself, whiles I am, have my existence determined but to one poor instant of time; and beyond that, I am assured of nothing. My slender third of Being may break a sunder, as near to that instant, as I can suppose any thing to be near unto it: and when I shall have supposed, Here it may break, I still find that it may break nearer and nearer; and that I can never arrive to settle the nearest point where it may snapp in two. But when time shall be no more; or at the least, shall in respect of me, be turned into Eternity; then this frail Existence of mine, will be stretched, out beyond the extent of all conquering time. What strange thing then, is this admirable multiplication of existence? or how may I be able to comprehend it? Existence is that which comprehendeth all things: and if God be not comprehended in it, thereby it is, that he is incomprehensible of us: and he is not comprehended in it, because himself is it. He is Existence: and by being so, he equaleth, not comprehendeth it. From hence then I may gather the excellency and waste empire of existence, in its own nature: and so conclude how admirable a change and betterment that must be, which increaseth, and multiplieth so infinitely the existence I now enjoy: for be it never so specious; be it never so glorious; be it what it is, existence, the top, the flower, the perfection of all created things; still there is a flaw, there is a defect, a shortness, a limitation in it: for now, my soul, thou art but a part of me; and dost exist in such a manner by succession, that the security and possession of it, is of less than of any thing whatsoever in the world; for it is of nothing more, then of an indivisible; which being such, in truth is nothing. But when the walls shall be broken down, that here confine thee to such a nothing of existence, (which yet is infinitely more noble, than all other degrees of notions) than thou shallest sum up time in formal being, and not be limited, as now thou art, to this so divided a succession. Thou shallest be an hour without divisibility: and if an hour, a year: if so, an age: and if an age, then for ever, for all eternity.  
But whither art thou flown, my soul? to what a dazzling height art thou mounted? Thou art now soared to such a lessening pitch, as my faint eyes are no longer able to follow thy touring flight: my head groweth giddy, with gazing up; whiles thou lookest down, to see time run an infinite distance beneath thee; wafting the existences of all corporeal things from nothing to nothing, in a perpetual stream: and thou secure, and out of the reach of its venomous and all destroying truth. Let me call to mind, all the violent pleasures of my heady youth: let me sum up their extent according to those deceitful measures I then rated happiness by: let me in my fancy chew over again the excessive good, I then fond imagined in them: and to all this, let me add as much more joy and felicity, as in my weak thoughts, I am able to fathom or but aim att: and then let me say (and with rigorous truth I shall say it) all this excess of bliss, will be resumed, will be enjoyed to the full, in one indivisible moment: let me think with myself, if then, when pleasure was the Idol I sacrificed all my thoughts unto, I might in one quarter of an hour have enjoyed a pleasure, or at the least, have hoped for one, that should have equalised at once all those, that in my life I ever tasted: what would not I have been content to give in purchase of that single quarter of an hour? And instead of this pleasant dream, I now see that one real moment, will truly and solidely give to thee and me, the quintessence, the Elixir of content and happiness; not drawn out of such 40 years, as I have struggled through the world in various fortunes; but out of ages and ages of pleasure, greater far than can be conceived by a hart of flesh; and multiplied beyond the Arithmetic of intelligences. And this happy moment, shall not be of their sudden fleeting and expiring nature, that are assigned to time; but shall endure beyond the extent of that time, which surpasseth all multiplication. I see plainly that I must multiply eternity by eternity, to frame a scantling of that bliss, which a well passed life in this world, shall bring me to in the next. And yet it will be as far short, and as much beneath the selfeblessednesse of him that giveth one this, as nothing is short of all that is. For my bliss shall have a beginning; and though it never shall have end, yet that belongeth not to it for its own sake, but proceedeth merely from the bounteous hand of the nothing annihilating self essence: from whom there is no more fear of the failing of his liberal supereffluence of Being upon me, than there is of his own deficiency from being self Being. But how can these things stand together? That indivisibly I shall possess a tenure beyond all possible time? and nevertheless possibly, not withstanding my possession, I may be bereft of what I enjoy? who can read this riddle? who can dive into this abyss? who can shoot light into this infinite pit of darkness? It is the abundance and excess of light that here striketh us blind. Who can strengthen our eyes to endure eaglewise this glorious and resplendent sun? Nothing surely in this world; unless it be silence and solitude. To these therefore let us consecrate the reverend contemplation of this awful mystery: which is but profaned, if it be exposed to vulgar eyes; and to such nightowles and bat's as we are, whiles the troubled fantasies of reeking sense and worldly occupations, do overcloud our misty thoughts.  
Now than if nature by short and thick steps at the beginning, and by larger paces in the progress, hath delivered us over into a night of pure light, where we can see nothing, because every thing is too visible; so that we are fain to veil our eyes, and are constrained to retire ourselves to medicate and arm them, before we expose them to so strong and glorious beams: how should we dare to look upon those admirable heights (infinitely surpassing all these) with which the overconquering Grace hath crowned and swelled up the extent of nature? What sight is sharp enough to penetrate into the mysterious essence, sprouting into different persons? Who can look upon the self multiplied unity, upon the incomprehensible circumincession, upon those wondrous processions, and idioms reserved for Angels eyes?  
Of these, (my soul) whose shootinges reach infinitely higher beyond all that we have said, than what we have said is beyond the dull and muddy motions of this life; thou art not capable now of receiving any instructions: let first the mystagogicall illuminations of the great Areopagite; and the Ascetike discipline of the Anachoreticall inhabitants of the wilderness, purify thy eye, before thou attemptest to speak, or to aim at the discovery of these abisming depths. By them thou must be first irrigated with the sweet showers of mornings and eveninge, with the gentle dews, and mannadroppes, which fall abundantly from those bounteous favours that reside in a higher sphere than nature; and that pour out, unknown and unconceivable blessings upon prepared hearts: which fructify into that true bliss, in comparison where of, all that we have hitherto declared, is but shadow, vanity, and nothing.  
FINIS.   

PRIVILEGE DV ROY.  
LOVYS PAR LA GRACE DE DIEV ROY DE FRANCE ET DE NAVARRE, A nos amez & feaux les gens tenans nos Cours de Parlemens, Baillifs, Seneschaux, Preuosts, leurs Lieutenans, & tous autres nos Iusticiers & Officiers qu'il appartiendra, Salut, Le Sieur Kenelm Digby Cheualier Anglois, nous a fait remonstrer qu'il a composé un Liure en langue Angloise, contenant deux Traitez, l'vn de la nature du corps, & l'autre de la nature des ames, avec une recherche de l'immortalité de celles qui sont raisonnables. Lequel il desireroit mettre en lumiere & faire imprimer, s'il avoit nos lettres à ce necessaires: lesquelles nous faisant supplier luy vouloir octroyer. A ces causes luy auons permis & accordé, permettons & accordons par ces presentes faire imprimer & debiter ledit Liure pendant six ans. Durant lesquels nous faisons deffenses à tous Libraires & Imprimeurs de nostredit Royaume, de l'imprimer vendre, ny debiter, soit sous quelque marque de déguisement ou traduction que ce soit, sans le consentement dudit sieur Digby, à peine de trois mille liures d'amende, confiscation des exemplaires qui s'en troweront, & de tous despens dommages & interests enuers luy. Si vous mandons & à chacun de vous enioignons tenir la main à l'execution des presentes, lesquelles voulons estre tenuës pour deuëment signifiées, en mettant copie d'icelles au commencement ou à la fin de chacun desdits Liures. A la charge de mettre par ledit sieur Digby une exemplaire dudit Liure en nostre Biblioteque, & une autre en celle de nostre tres-cher & feal Chancelier, à peine de nullité desdites presentes. Car tel est nostre plaisir, nonobstant oppositions ou appellations quelconques, clameur de Haro, chartre Normande, & lettres à ce contraires. Donné à Fontainebleau le vingt-sixiesme iour de Septembre, l'an de grace mil six cens quarantequatre, & de nostre Regne le deuxiesme.  
Par le Roy en son Conseil, GVITONNEAV.   

 

 
Ar. 3. de anima.