To stain themselves in all their former mire,
That fruit rejecting from their mouths again,
Not any more their medicine, but their bane.
XI.
Oh blessèd they, who not retreating so,
First in that fountain make them pure and fair,
And do from thence unto the branches go,
With power upon the fruitage hanging there:
Thence by the branches of the lofty tree
Ascend to heaven—The Tree of Life oh! see.