If so, Narcissa[20], welcome my Relapse;
I’ll raise a tax on my calamity, 280
And reap rich compensation from my pain.
I’ll range the plenteous intellectual field;
And gather every thought of sovereign power
To chase the moral maladies of man;
Thoughts, which may bear transplanting to the skies,
Though natives of this coarse penurious soil;
Nor wholly wither there, where seraphs sing,
Refined, exalted, not annull’d, in heaven.