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I say, 'tis hard to write Satyrs. Though Ill
Great'ned in his long course, and swelling still,
Be now like to a Deluge, yet, as Nile.
'Tis doubtful in his original; this while
We may thus much on either part presume,
That what so universal are, must come
From causes great and far. Now in this state
Of things, what is least like Good, men hate,
Since 'twill be the less sin. I do see
Some Ill requir'd, that one poison might free

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The other; so States, to their Greatness, find
No faults requir'd but their own, and bind
The rest. And though this be mysterious still,
Why should we not examine how this Ill
Did come at first, how't keeps his greatness here,
When 'tis disguis'd, and when it doth appear.
This Ill having some Attributes of God,
As to have made it self, and bear the rod
Of all our punishments, as it seems, came
Into the world, to rule it, and to tame
The pride of Goodness, and though his Reign
Great in the hearts of men he doth maintain
By love, not right, he yet the tyrant here
(Though it be him we love, and God we fear)
Pretence yet wants not, that it was before
Some part of Godhead, as Mercy, that store
For Souls grown Bankrupt, their first stock of Grace,
And that which the sinner of the last place
Shall number out, unless th' Highest will shew
Some power, not yet reveal'd to Man below.