The faithless Jews will this at doom confess, 25
Who did suspect Him for his low disguise:
But, if He could have made his virtue less,
He had been more familiar to their eyes.
Frail life! in which, through mists of human breath
We grope for truth, and make our progress slow, 30
Because by passion blinded; till, by death
Our passions ending, we begin to know.
O reverend death! whose looks can soon advise
Even scornful youth, whilst priests their doctrine waste;