 | The poems (1923) |  |
Ode: Of our Sense of Sinne.
Vengeance will sit above our faults; but till
She there doth sit,
We see her not, nor them. Thus, blinde, yet still
We leade her way; and thus, whil'st we doe ill,
We suffer it.
She there doth sit,
We see her not, nor them. Thus, blinde, yet still
We leade her way; and thus, whil'st we doe ill,
We suffer it.
Vnhappy he, whom youth makes not beware
Of doing ill.
Enough we labour under age, and care;
In number, th'errours of the last place, are
The greatest still.
Of doing ill.
Enough we labour under age, and care;
In number, th'errours of the last place, are
The greatest still.
Yet we, that should the ill we new begin
As soone repent,
(Strange thing!) perceive not; our faults are not seen
But past us; neither felt, but onely in
Our punishment.
As soone repent,
(Strange thing!) perceive not; our faults are not seen
But past us; neither felt, but onely in
Our punishment.
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But we know our selves least; There outward shews
Our mindes so store,
That our soules, no more then our eyes disclose
But forme and colour. Onely he who knowes
Himselfe, knowes more.
Our mindes so store,
That our soules, no more then our eyes disclose
But forme and colour. Onely he who knowes
Himselfe, knowes more.
| The poems (1923) | |