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And streams of fertilizing goreFlow from her bosom's hideous rent,Which this unfailing dagger gave. . . . .I dread that blood!—no more—this dayIs ours, though her eternal ray Must shine upon our grave.Yet know, proud Vice, had I not givenTo thee the robe I stole from heaven,Thy shape of ugliness and fearHad never gained admission here.
vice.And know, that had I disdained to toil,But sate in my loathsome cave the while,And ne'er to these hateful sons of heaven,GOLD, MONARCHY, and MURDER given:Hadst thou with all thine art essayedOne of thy games then to have played,With all thine overweening boast,Falsehood! I tell thee thou hadst lost!—Yet wherefore this dispute?—we tend,Fraternal, to one common end;In this cold grave beneath my feet,Will our hopes, our fears, and our labours meet.
falsehood.I brought my daughter, RELIGION, on earth:She smothered Reason's babes in their birth;But dreaded their mother's eye severe,—So the crocodile slunk off slily in fear,
