VII
For the great soule which here amongst us now Doth dwell, and moves that hand, and tongue, and brow, Which, as the Moone the sea, moves us; to heare Whose story, with long patience you will long; (For 'tis the crowne, and last straine of my song) This soule to whom Luther, and Mahomet were Prisons of flesh; this soule which oft did teare, And mend the wracks of th'Empire, and late Rome, And liv'd when every great change did come, Had first in paradise, a low, but fatall roome.