But
whither goes that vein? whither flows it? wherefore runs it into
that torrent of pitch bubbling forth those monstrous tides of foul
lustfulness, into which it is wilfully changed and transformed,
being of its own will precipitated and corrupted from its heavenly
clearness? Shall compassion then be put away? by no means. Be griefs
then sometimes loved. But beware of uncleanness, O my soul, under
the guardianship of my God, the God of our fathers, who is to be
praised and exalted above all for ever, beware of uncleanness. For I
have not now ceased to pity; but then in the theatres I rejoiced
with lovers when they wickedly enjoyed one another, although this
was imaginary only in the play. And when they lost one another, as
if very compassionate, I sorrowed with them, yet had my delight in
both. But now I much more pity him that rejoiceth in his wickedness,
than him who is thought to suffer hardship, by missing some pernicious
pleasure, and the loss of some miserable felicity. This certainly is
the truer mercy, but in it grief delights not.
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