Sweet Intercourse Of Looks And Smiles; For

Law Can Discover Sin, But Not Remove, Save By Those Shadowy Expiations Weak.

Let No Man Seek Henceforth To Be Foretold That Shall Befall Him Or His Children.

Freely They Stood Who Stood, And Fell Who Fell.

And May At Last My Weary Age Find Out The Peaceful Hermitage, The Hairy Gown And Mossy Cell, Where I May Sit And Rightly Spell Of Every Star That Heaven Doth Shew, And Every Herb That Sips The Dew, Till Old Experience To Attain To Something Like Prophetic Strain.

Did I Request Thee, Maker, From My Clay To Mould Me Man? Did I Solicit Thee From Darkness To Promote Me?