| Behold the mystery of toil
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| O you who are taken in the toils of mystery
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| the spade of the husbandman is the sceptre of the king
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| at the end of labour is the power of labour
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| I disport myself in the ruins of Eden
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| ecen as Leviathan in the false sea
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| and the sorrow that blackens your heart
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| is the myriad deaths by shick I am renewd
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| behold the mystery of toil
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| O you who are takes in the toils of mystery
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| all the heavens beneath me they serve me
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| they are my fields and my gardens and my orchards and pastures
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| my blood is wine and my breath the fire of madness
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| i life myselfe above the crown of the yod
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| I swin in the inviolate fountain
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| glory unto the Rose and the Cross
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| for the cross is extended unto the uttermost end
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| beyond space and time being and knowledge and delight
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| glory unto the Rose that is the minute point of this center
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| she is Nuit the circumference of all
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| and glory unto the Cross that is the heart of the Rose
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| behold the mystery of toil
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| O you who are takes in the toils of mystery
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| the whirlings of the universe are but the course of the blood in my heart
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| and its variety but my divers hairs
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| that shick I think to be myself is but infinite number
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| the change which you lament is the life of my rejoicing
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| the instability which makes your fear
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| is the waverings of balance by which I am assured |