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I told ye then he should prevail, and speed On his bad errand; man should be seduced, And flatter’d out of all, believing lies Against his Maker; no decree of mine Concurring to necessitate his fall, Or touch’d with slightest moment of impulse His free-will, to her own inclining left In even scale.—MILTON.
And more, my son! for more than once when I Sat all alone, revolving in myself The word that is the symbol of myself, The mortal limit of the Self was loosed, And passed into the Nameless, as a cloud Melts into Heaven. I touch’d my limbs, the limbs Were strange not mine—and yet no shade of doubt, But utter clearness, and thro’ loss of Self.
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