|
| 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] |