XIX.

"For though I fly to 'scape from Fortune's rage, And bear the scars of envy, spite, and scorn, Yet with mankind no horrid war I wage, Yet with no impious spleen my breast is torn: For virtue lost, and ruin'd man, I mourn. O man! creation's pride, Heaven's darling child, Whom Nature's best, divinest gifts adorn, Why from thy home are truth and joy exil'd, And all thy favourite haunts with blood and tears defil'd?