XXXVIII.

What art thou, Man, that mak’st a pride of strife, A glory of the sufferings of thy kind? That dar’st profanely sport with human life, And ev’n in cruelty canst greatness find? Oh, steeped in folly, oh, intensely blind, And worshipping false Honour more than God, Of beasts derided is thy boasted mind! Fawn on thy gilded butchers, kiss the rod, But deem not scenes like these have Heaven’s approving nod.