VIII.

Canst thou forego the pure ethereal soul In each fine sense so exquisitely keen, On the dull couch of Luxury to loll, Stung with disease, and stupified with spleen; Fain to implore the aid of Flattery's screen, Even from thyself thy loathsome heart to hide, (The mansion, then, no more of joy serene) Where fear, distrust, malevolence, abide, And impotent desire, and disappointed pride?