Must we not then with pa­tience wait,
False to dis­ting­uish from sin­cere?
Or can we on an­oth­er’s state
Pronounce, be­fore the fruits ap­pear?
Can we the wit­ness­es re­ceive
Who of their own per­fec­tion boast,
The fair­est words as fruit re­ceive?
The fair­est words are leaves at most.

How shall we then the spi­rits prove?
Their ac­tions with their words com­pare,
And wait—till hum­blest, meek­est love
Their per­fect no­thing­ness de­clare:
But if the small­est spark of pride,
Or self­ish­ness, break out at last,
Set the false wit­ness­es aside;
Yet hold the truth for ev­er fast.