Anon Out Of The Earth A Fabric

And Yet On The Other Hand Unless Warinesse Be Us'd, As Good Almost Kill A Man As Kill A Good Book; Who Kills A Man Kills A Reasonable Creature, Gods Image, But Hee Who Destroyes A Good Booke, Kills Reason It Selfe, Kills The Image Of God, As It Were In The Eye.

For Stories Teach Us, That Liberty Sought Out Of Season, In A Corrupt And Degenerate Age, Brought Rome Itself To A Farther Slavery: For Liberty Hath A Sharp And Double Edge, Fit Only To Be Handled By Just And Virtuous Men; To Bad And Dissolute, It Becomes A Mischief Unwieldy In Their Own Hands: Neither Is It Completely Given, But By Them Who Have The Happy Skill To Know What Is Grievance And Unjust To A People, And How To Remove It Wisely; What Good Laws Are Wanting, And How To Frame Them Substantially, That Good Men May Enjoy The Freedom Which They Merit, And The Bad The Curb Which They Need.

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.

What Better Can We Do Than Prostrate Fall Before Him Reverent, And There Confess Humbly Our Faults, And Pardon Beg With Tears Watering The Ground?

For No Falsehood Can Endure Touch Of Celestial Temper.