O Lord of worlds, against Adam, no grudge or spite I did e'er bear. Alas! He is a captive still of late and soon, far off and near. 'Fore You, O mighty Lord of Worlds a haughty pose I could not show; it was pre-ordained by You God that I to You would never bow.

Before denial or after, when did across your mind this mystery dart?

Aft Lord, who can by Your display perfection great to life impart.

His low grovelling bent of mind has taught the wretch to argue and contend; he says it was pre-ordained, to God he would not bow or bend. Unfettered freedom though he owns, yet gives it name of much constraint: The tyrant, though a blazing flame, to be mere smoke is his complaint.