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 Hadst thou of its worth the notion, Thou wouldst seek no other potion, Nor pursue with such devotion Earth's poor passing vanities.

Couldst thou realize the presence Of Hell's deep and dark horrescence, All thy fleshly concupiscence Thou to master wouldst not fail:

And thy sins past calculation, Word, and deed, and cogitation, With a soul in consternation Thou wouldst worthily bewail.

With such joys are saints surrounded, Sinners with such wrath confounded, That their vastness all unbounded Human sense can never span,

Till the clay the spirit leaveth, And the palm of joy receiveth, Or for ever wildly cleaveth To the sinner's cursed clan.

When to earth the body goeth, Of the soul man nothing knoweth, Little saith and little showeth Of its joy or misery.