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Theonöe:
May then a Soul, grown sick at heart for home
Languishing here in prison, unloose the chain,
Draw back the bolt and win to her father-land
By the low door of Death?
Libanius:
It may not be.
You know that Soul and Body dwelt apart
One in the gulf beneath, and one ensky'd,
Till quicken'd by the universal soul
What was mere matter takes a body on,
Since God has bound the Body to the Soul,
With Time the Soul has learn'd to suffer it,
As men may suffer a poor hovel's shade,
Unknowing of a palace waiting them.
Though Death shall loose the Body from the Soul,
The Soul from Matter must herself release,
Yet not precipitately. Travellers,
