Draw me to wander after idle fires;
Or voices calling me in dead of night
To make me follow, and so tole me on
Thro’ mire and standing pools to find my ruin;
Else, why should this rough thing, who never knew
Manners, nor smooth humanity, whose heats
Are rougher than himself, and more misshapen,
Thus mildly kneel to me? Sure there’s a pow’r
In that great name of Virgin, that binds fast
All rude uncivil bloods, all appetites