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Poem	If he from Heav'n that filch'd that living fire Condemn'd by Jove to endless torment be, I greatly marvel how you still go free That far beyond Prometheus did aspire. The fire he stole, although of heav'nly kind, Which from above he craftily did take, Of lifeless clods us living men to make, He did bestow in temper of the mind; But you broke into Heav'n's immortal store, Where Virtue, Honor, Wit, and Beauty lay, Which taking thence you have escap'd away, Yet stand as free as e'er you did before; Yet old Prometheus punish'd for his rape. Thus poor thieves suffer when the greater 'scape.
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