Oh, man! Thou image of thy markers good, what canst thou fear, when breathd into thy blood his spirt is, that built thee? What dull sense makes thee suspect, in need. That providences who made the morning and who placed the light. And bid her fall upon thee like sweet showers in hollow murmurs, to lock up thy powers: who gave thee knowledge, who so trusted thee, to let thee grow so near himself, the tree: must he then be distrusted? Shall his frame discourse with him, why thus and this i am? He made the angels thine, thy fellows all, nay, even thy servants, when devotion call. Oh. Canst thou be so stupid then, so dim. To seek a saving influence, and loose him? He is my star, in him all truth i find, all influence, all fate! And when my mind is furnished with his fullness, my poor story shall out-live all their age, and all their glory! The hand of danger cannot fall amiss, when i know what, and in whose power it is: nor want, the curse of man, shall make me groan: a holy hermit is a mind alone doth not experience teach us, all we can to work ourselves into a glorious man? FOR STUBBORN IGNORANCE: ALL THINGS THAT ARE MADE FOR OUR GENERAL USES, ARE AT WAR. MAN IS HIS OWN STAR: AND THAT SOUL THAT CAN BE HONEST. IS THE ONLY PERFECT MAN.
Posted on: Sun, 16 Feb 2014 15:47:19 +0000
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