O How Feeble Is Man's Power, That

Who Knows His Virtues Name Or Place, Hath None.

And To 'scape Stormy Days, I Choose An Everlasting Night.

Since You Would Save None Of Me, I Bury Some Of You.

Affliction Is A Treasure, And Scarce Any Man Hath Enough Of It. No Man Hath Affliction Enough That Is Not Matured And Ripened By It And Made Fit For God.

For I Am Every Dead Thing In Whom Love Wrought New Alchemy For His Art Did Express A Quintessence Even From Nothingness, From Dull Privations, And Lean Emptiness He Ruined Me, And I Am Re-begot Of Absence, Darkness, Death; Things Which Are Not.