When Sarah Pierrepont let her spirit rage,
Her love and scorn refused the bauble earth
(Which took bloom even here, under the Bear)
And groped for the Essence sitting in himself,
Subtle, I think, for a girl’s unseasoned rage.
The late and sudden extravagance of soul
By which they all were swollen exalted her
At seventeen years to Edwards’ canopy,
A match pleasing to any Heaven, had not
The twelve mortal labors harassed her soul.
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