At length it came back: he would glance again into his cousin
Thomas's book. He had but to stretch out his hand to take it, for
his bed was close by the window. Opening it at random, he came upon
this passage:
And as the Mill, that circumgyreth fast, Refuseth nothing that
therein is cast, But whatsoever is to it assign'd Gladly receives
and willing is to grynd, But if the violence be with nothing fed, It
wasts itselfe: e'en so the heart mis-led, Still turning round,
unstable as the Ocean, Never at rest, but in continuall Motion,
Sleepe or awake, is still in agitation Of some presentment in th'
imagination.
If to the Mill-stone you shall cast in Sand, It troubles them, and
makes them at a stand; If Pitch, it chokes them; or if Chaffe let
fall, They are employ'd, but to no use at all. So, bitter thoughts
molest, uncleane thoughts staine And spot the Heart; while those
idle and vaine Weare it, and to no purpose. For when 'tis Drowsie
and carelesse of the future blisse, And to implore Heav'n's aid, it
doth imply How far is it remote from the most High.
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