'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!