V.

This goodly pile, upheaved by Wyatt's toil, Perchance than Holland's edifice[11] more fleet, Again red Lemnos' artisan may spoil; The fire-alarm and midnight drum may beat, And all be strewed y-smoking at your feet! Start ye? perchance Death's angel may be sent, Ere from the flaming temple ye retreat; And ye who met, on revel idlesse bent, May find, in pleasure's fane, your grave and monument.