No worthy enterprise can be done by us without continual plodding and wearisomeness to our faint and sensitive abilities.

And looks commercing with the skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes.

They are the troublers, they are the dividers of unity, who neglect and don't permit others to unite those dissevered pieces which are yet wanting to the body of Truth.

The pilot of the Galilean lake; Two massy keys he bore, of metals twain (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain).

Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain.

Is it true, O Christ in heaven, that the highest suffer the most? That the strongest wander furthest and most hopelessly are lost? That the mark of rank in nature is capacity for pain? That the anguish of the singer makes the sweetness of the strain?

Temper justice with mercy.