Is it my fault, if these truths call thee fool?
And thou shalt never be miscall’d by me. 2052
Can neither shame, nor terror, stand thy friend;
And art thou still an insect in the mire?
How, like thy guardian angel, have I flown;
Snatch’d thee from earth; escorted thee through all
Th’ ethereal armies; walk’d thee, like a god,
Through splendours of first magnitude, arranged
On either hand; clouds thrown beneath thy feet;
Close cruised on the bright paradise of God; 2060