Though Rome's gross yoke Drops off, no more to be endured, Her teaching is not so obscured By errors and perversities, That no truth shines athwart the lies.

Fair or foul the lot apportioned life on earth, we bear alike.

Our interest's on the dangerous edge of things. The honest thief, the tender murderer, the superstitious atheist.

There shall never be one lost good! What was, shall live as before; The evil is null, is nought, is silence implying sound; What was good shall be good, with for evil so much good more; On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven, a perfect round.

In God's good time, Which does not always fall on Saturday When the world looks for wages.

'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls.

Man partly is and wholly hopes to be.