There Is No Truth Sure Enough To

O Loss Of Sight, Of Thee I Most Complain! Blind Among Enemies, O Worse Than Chains, Dungeon, Or Beggary, Or Decrepit Age!

Methinks I See In My Mind A Noble And Puissant Nation Rousing Herself Like A Strong Man After Sleep, And Shaking Her Invincible Locks; Methinks I See Her As An Eagle Mewing Her Mighty Youth, And Kindling Her Undazzled Eyes At The Full Midday Beam.

When The New Light Which We Beg For Shines In Upon Us, There Be [those] Who Envy And Oppose, If It Come Not First In At Their Casements.

Such As The Meeting Soul May Pierce, In Notes With Many A Winding Bout Of Linked Sweetness Long Drawn Out.

But When Lust By Unchaste Looks, Loose Gestures, And Foul Talk, But Most By Lewd And Lavish Arts Of Sin, Lets In Defilement To The Inward Parts, The Soul Grows Clotted By Contagion, Imbodies And Imbrutes, Till She Quite Lose The Divine Property Of Her First Being.