will sit above our faults ; but till
there do sit,
We see her not, nor them. Thus blind, yet still
We lead her way ; and thus, whilst we do ill,
2. Unhappy he whom youth makes
Enough we labour under age, and care ;
In number, th' errors of the last place are
3. Yet we, that should the ill
we now begin
Strange thing ! perceive not ; our faults are not
But past us ; neither felt, but only in
4. But we know ourselves least
; mere outward shows
minds so store,
That our souls no more than our eyes disclose
But form and colour. Only he who knows
Donne, John. Poems of John Donne. vol I.
E. K. Chambers, ed.
London: Lawrence & Bullen, 1896. 190-191.
||to Works of John Donne
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