Ode

I

Vengeance will sit above our faults; but till
        She there do sit,
We see her not, nor them. Thus, blind, yet still
We lead her way; and thus, whilst we do ill,
        We suffer it.

II

Unhappy he whom youth makes not beware
        Of doing ill.
Enough we labour under age, and care;
In number, th’ errors of the last place are
        The greatest still.

III

Yet we, that should the ill we now begin
        As soon repent,
Strange thing! perceive not; our faults are not seen,
But past us; neither felt, but only in
        The punishment.

IV

But we know ourselves least; mere outward shows
        Our minds so store,
That our souls no more than our eyes disclose
But form and colour. Only he who knows
        Himself, knows more.