The Sunne within you shines, and curse th' unkind
Eclipse, or else our selves for being blinde.
How hastily doth Nature build up man
To leave him so imperfect? For he can
See nought beyond his sence; she doth controule
So farre his sight, he nere discern'd a soule.
For had yours beene the object of his eye;
It had turn'd wonder to Idolatry.
[32] To the Right Honourable, my very good Lady, the Countesse of C. 1635.