LXXVI.

 The Vine had struck a fiber: which about
 It clings my Being--let the Dervish flout;
   Of my Base metal may be filed a Key
 That shall unlock the Door he howls without.


LXXVII.

 And this I know: whether the one True Light
 Kindle to Love, or Wrath consume me quite,
   One Flash of It within the Tavern caught
 Better than in the Temple lost outright.


LXXVIII.

 What! out of senseless Nothing to provoke
 A conscious Something to resent the yoke
   Of unpermitted Pleasure, under pain
 Of Everlasting Penalties, if broke!


LXXIX.

 What! from his helpless Creature be repaid
 Pure Gold for what he lent him dross-allay'd--
   Sue for a Debt he never did contract,
 And cannot answer--Oh the sorry trade!


LXXX.

 Oh Thou, who didst with pitfall and with gin
 Beset the Road I was to wander in,
   Thou wilt not with Predestined Evil round
 Enmesh, and then impute my Fall to Sin!