Evil On Itself Shall Back Recoil.

With Diadem And Sceptre High Advanced, The Lower Still I Fall; Only Supreme In Misery; Such Joy Ambition Finds.

What Neat Repast Shall Feast Us, Light And Choice, Of Attic Taste?

Ev'n Them Who Kept Thy Truth So Pure Of Old, When All Our Fathers Worshipp'd Stocks And Stones.

Eye Me, Blest Providence, And Square My Trial To My Proportion'd Strength.

I Hate When Vice Can Bolt Her Arguments, And Virtue Has No Tongue To Check Her Pride.