The worlds olio written by the Right Honorable, the Lady Margaret Newcastle.

55.

OR a Child's Brain is like an Island uninhabited, and the Blood in the Veins is the Sea that doth surround it; but Time, the great Navigator, plants it with Strength, which cau∣seth the Spirits, as Merchants, to traffique thereto; by which it becomes populated with Thoughts, and builds Towers of Ima∣ginations; the Magistrates, which are Opinions, dwell therin; but the Castles of Fancie are for the Muses, who attend the Queen of Wit; but all Brains are not fertile alike, but are like Islands that are neer the Poles, which are inhabited with no∣thing but Wild Beasts, as Ruff and Rude Bears; others, though they be neerer the Sun, yet are Incipid and Barren, being full of Heaths, bearing nothing but Mossy Ignorance, or else Moo∣rish, being full of Boggs of Sloth, where Lives are swallowed up, sinking insensibly; and some other Brains have rich Soils, but want the manuring of Education, whereby the Thoughts, which are the people, grow lazy, and live brutishly; but those Brains that have rich Soils, moderatly peopled, & well manured, having not more peopled Thoughts than work for their In∣dustry, or so few as not to manage or imploy every part therein;

these Brains are fortified with Understanding, Governed by Judgment, Civilized by Reason, Manured by Experience, whereby they reape the plenty of Wisdome, and live in peace∣full Tranquillity, and being inriched with Invention, grow plea∣sant with Recreations, making Gardens of Pleasure, wherein grow Flowers of Delight; and planting Orchards of various Objects, which the several Senses bring in; these grow tall Trees of Contemplations, whereon the Birds of Poetry sit and sing, and peck at the Fruit of Fame with their Bills of Glory; from thence they fly over the Groves of Eternity with their wings of Presumption; but some Birds of Poetry light on the Ground of Recreation, there hop through the paths of Custom, made by the recourse of the peopled Thoughts, through the Meadows of Me∣mory, in the Island of the Brain; and sometimes skip upon a Stick of Conceit, wagging their tail of Jests; or else fly to the Forest of wild Phantasms; but there finding little Substance to feed on, return with weary Wings to their place of rest again; but in the Spring time of Love, the Nightingale-Poets sing Amorous Sonnets in several Notes of Numbers, somtimes in the Dawny Morning of Hopes, or in the Evening of Doubts, and somtimes in the Night of Dispair, but seldom in the high Noon of Fruition.