With soul more blank than this decanter's knob,
Believe—and yet lie, kill, rob, fornicate,
Full in belief's face, like the beast you 'd be!
No, when the fight begins within himself,
A man 's worth something. God stoops o'er his head,
Satan looks up between his feet—both tug—
He 's left, himself, i' the middle: the soul wakes
And grows. Prolong that battle through his life!
Never leave growing till the life to come!
Here, we 've got callous to the Virgin's winks