Praise From An Enemy Smells

The Work Under Our Labour Grows, Luxurious By Restraint.

In Dim Eclipse, Disastrous Twilight Sheds On Half The Nations, And With Fear Of Change Perplexes Monarchs.

A Limbo Large And Broad, Since Call'd The Paradise Of Fools To Few Unknown.

But When Lust By Unchaste Looks, Loose Gestures, And Foul Talk, But Most By Lewd And Lavish Arts Of Sin, Lets In Defilement To The Inward Parts, The Soul Grows Clotted By Contagion, Imbodies And Imbrutes, Till She Quite Lose The Divine Property Of Her First Being.

Who, As They Sung, Would Take The Prison'd Soul And Lap It In Elysium.