Poem 8

To whom the Angel, with contracted brow: “Accuse not Nature, she hath done her part; Do thou but thine, and be not diffident Of Wisdom; she deserts thee not, if thou Dismiss not her, when most thou need’st her nigh, By attributing overmuch to things Less excellent, as thou thyself perceiv’st. For what admir’st thou, what transports thee so? An outside: fair, no doubt, and worthy well Thy cherishing, thy honouring, and thy love; Not thy subjection. Weigh with her thyself; Then value. Oft-times nothing profits more Than self-esteem, grounded on just and right, Well managed; of that skill the more thou know’st, The more she will acknowledge thee her head, And to realities yield all her shows: Made so adorn for thy delight the more, So awful, that with honour thou may’st love Thy mate, who sees when thou art seen least wise. But if the sense of touch, whereby mankind Is propagated, seem such dear delight Beyond all other, think the same vouchsafed To cattle and each beast; which would not be To them made common and divulged, if aught Therein enjoyed were worthy to subdue The soul of Man, or passion in him move. What higher in her society thou find’st Attractive, human, rational, love still: In loving thou dost well; in passion not, Wherein true love consists