Practice Typing

When we had passed the threshold of the gate Which the souls ill affection doth disuse, Making the crooked seem the straighter path, I heard its closing sound. Had mine eyes turnd, For that offence what plea might have availd. We mounted up the riven rock, that wound On either side alternate, as the wave Flies and advances. Here some little art Behooves us, said my leader, that our steps Observe the varying flexure of the path.