Unpurified by an authentic act
Of amnesty, the meed of blood divine,
Lov’d not the light, but, gloomy, into gloom
Of thickest shades, like Adam after taste
Of fruit proscrib’d, as to a refuge, fled.
Thou wast a bauble once; a cup-and-ball,
Which babes might play with; and the thievish jay
Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin’d
The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down
Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs,