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 Have I kept silence: nay, my thoughts devour me,

To see myself thus made a mockery of.

O these new gods! Who was it, who but I,

That dealt to each his own appurtenance?

But peace to that: I speak not unto those

From whom these things are hidden. Now consider

The sore estate of men, how witless once

And weak they were, until I lodged in them

Reason, and gave them hearts to understand.

I speak not to discover man's defect,

But how my gifts consorted with their need.

For first they saw and gat no good of seeing,

They heard and heard not: all their life they seem'd

To move as in a dream, shape mix'd with shape

Confusedly, at hazard; and they knew not

Houses that took the sun, brick-woven or wood,

But burrowing huddled, like to wind-borne ants,

Far down in holes beyond all reach of day.

And no sure sign of winter had they found,