I.
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HE woman’s gentle mood o’ersteptWithers my love, that lightly scansThe rest, and does in her acceptAll her own faults, but none of man’s.As man I cannot judge her ill,Or honour her fair station less,Who, with a woman’s errors, stillPreserves a woman’s gentleness;For thus I think, if one I seeWho disappoints my high desire,‘How admirable would she be,Could she but know how I admire!’Or fail she, though from blemish clear,To charm, I call it my defect;And so my thought, with reverent fearTo err by doltish disrespect,Imputes love’s great regard, and says,‘Though unapparent ’tis to me,Be sure this Queen some other swaysWith well-perceiv’d supremacy.’Behold the worst! Light from aboveOn the blank ruin writes ‘Forbear!Her first crime was unguarded love,And all the rest, perhaps, despair.’Discrown’d, dejected, but not lost,O, sad one, with no more a nameOr place in all the honour’d hostOf maiden and of matron fame,Grieve on; but, if thou grievest right,’Tis not that these abhor thy state,Nor would’st thou lower the least the heightWhich makes thy casting down so great.Good is thy lot in its degree;For hearts that verily repentAre burden’d with impunityAnd comforted by chastisement.Sweet patience sanctify thy woes!And doubt not but our God is just,Albeit unscathed thy traitor goes,And thou art stricken to the dust.That penalty’s the best to bearWhich follows soonest on the sin;And guilt’s a game where losers fareBetter than those who seem to win.
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