Most highly favour’d, most profoundly lost!
Ye motley mass of contradiction strong!
And are you, too, convinced, your souls fly off 1210
In exhalation soft, and die in air,
From the full flood of evidence against you?
In the coarse drudgeries, and sinks of Sense, 1213
Your souls have quite worn out the make of Heaven,
By vice new-cast, and creatures of your own:
But though you can deform, you can’t destroy;
To curse, not uncreate, is all your power.