Into This Wild Abyss, The Womb Of

Justice Divine Mends Not Her Slowest Pace For Prayers Or Cries.

Ah Gentle Pair, Ye Little Think How Nigh Your Change Approaches, When All These Delights Will Vanish And Deliver Ye To Woe, More Woe, The More Your Taste Is Now Of Joy.

Thick As Autumnal Leaves That Strow The Brooks In Vallombrosa, Where Th' Etrurian Shades High Over-arch'd Imbower.

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.

Nor From Hell One Step No More Than From Himself Can Fly By Change Of Place.