Some Misbelieving And Profane In Love, When I Do Speak Of Miracles By Thee, May Say That Thou Art Flatter'D By Me, Who Only Write My Skill In Verse To Prove See Miracles, Ye Unbelieving, See! A Dumb-Born Muse Made To Express The Mind, A Cripple Hand To Write, Yet Lame By Kind, One By Thy Name, The Other Touching Thee. Blind Were Mine Eyes, Till They Were Seen Of Thine; And Mine Ears Deaf By Thy Fame Heal'D Be; My Vices Cured By Virtues Sprung From Thee; My Hopes Revived Which Long In Grave Had Lien. All Unclean Thoughts, Foul Spirits, Cast Out In Me, Only By Virtue That Proceeds From Thee.