Sonnet CIV          

O false and treacherous Probability, Enemy of truth, and friend to wickednesse; With whose bleare eyes opinion learnes to see Truths feeble party here, and barrennesse. When thou hast thus misled Humanity, And lost obedience in the pride of wit, With reason dar'st thou judge the Deity, And in thy flesh make bold to fashion it. Vaine thought, the word of Power a riddle is, And till the vayles be rent, the flesh newborne, Reveales no wonders of that inward blisse, Which but where faith is, every where findes scorne; Who therfore censures God with fleshly sp'rit, As well in time may wrap up infinite.