Ode: Of our Sense of Sinne

Vengeance will sit above our faults; but till
She there doth sit,
We see her not, nor them. Thus, blinde, yet still
We leade her way; and thus, whil'st we doe ill,
We suffer it.

Vnhappy he, whom youth makes not beware
Of doing ill.
Enough we labour under age, and care;
In number, th'errours of the last place, are
The greatest still.

Yet we, that should the ill we now begin
As soone repent,
(Strange thing!) perceive not; our faults are not seen,
But past us; neither felt, but onely in
The punishment.

But we know our selves least; Mere outward shews
Our mindes so store,
That our soules, no more than our eyes disclose
But forme and colour. Onely he who knowes
Himselfe, knowes more.