Good, the more communicated, more abundant grows.
Such as the meeting soul may pierce, In notes with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out.
Sweet bird, that shun the noise of folly, most musical, most melancholy!
Should God create another Eve, and I Another Rib afford, yet loss of thee Would never from my heart; no no, I feel The Link of Nature draw me: Flesh of Flesh, Bone of my Bone thou art, and from thy State Mine never shall be parted, bliss or woe.
But pain is perfect misery, the worst Of evils, and excessive, overturns All patience.
Nor turned I ween Adam from his fair spouse, nor Eve the rites Mysterious of connubial love refused: Whatever hypocrites austerely talk Of purity and place and innocence, Defaming as impure what God declares Pure, and commands to some, leaves free to all.