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Like ill news read by light'ning, in a storm,
And looking back clear shall the sense appear
Of what seem'd hidden, hieroglyphick, script,
Till penitent tears had wash'd your vision clear,
Repent, Sylvester, call upon the sky,
For you are old and have offended Heaven,
Weep, pray, repent, lay by your stubborn pride,
Call on the Infinite Mercy!
Sylvester:
Nay, Lenore,
If in the angry heats of burning Youth
Heady and fierce as the Italian springs
I sinn'd, as men count sinning, I my sin
Regret not and repent not, what I might
Have done and did not, solely I repent,
And count for merit of my own deserts
That wilful sadness, listless weariness,
Or dull indifference I never knew.
Extreme in pleasure, as in toil extreme,
