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 ruined 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 exiled, 'And all thy favourite haunts with blood and tears defiled!