|
If either ever wrought in you alone |
Or principally, then Religion |
Wrought your ends, and your ways discretion. |
|
Go thither still, go the same way you went, |
Who so would change, doth covet or repent; |
Neither can reach you, great and innocent. |
|
To the Countess of Huntingdon. |
|
That unripe side of earth, that heavy clime |
That gives us man up now, like Adams time |
Before he eat; mans shape, that would yet be |
(Knew they not it, and fear'd beasts companie) |
So naked at this day, as though man there |
From Paradise so great a distance were, |
As yet the news could not arrived be |
Of Adam's tasting the forbidden tree; |
Depriv'd of that free state which they were in, |
And wanting the reward, yet bear the sin. |
But, as from extreme heights who downward looks, |
Sees men at childrens shapes, Rivers at brooks, |
And loseth younger formes; so, to your eye, |
These (Madam) that without your distance lie, |
Must either mist, or nothing seem to be, |
Who are at home but wits mere Atomi. |
But, I who can behold them move, and stay, |
Have found my self to you, just their midway; |
And now must pity them: for, as they do |
Seem sick to me, just so must I to you, |
Yet neither will I vex your eyes to see |
A sighing Ode, nor cross-arm'd Elegie. |
I come not to call pity from your heart, |
Like some white-liver'd dotard that would part
|
[CW: Else] |