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.