That under covert and convenient seeming
Hast practis’d on man’s life! Close pent up guilts,
Rive your concealing continents, and ask
Those dreadful summoners grace.
Ibid.
Can any mortal mixture of Earth’s mould,
Breathe such divine, enchanting ravishment?
Sure something holy lodges in that breast,
And with these raptures moves the vocal air
To testify his hidden residence: