O God, O God, How

They Were Devils Incarnate.

Let Every Eye Negotiate For Itself And Trust No Agent.

So Many Miseries Have Craz'd My Voice, That My Woe-wearied Tongue Is Still And Mute.

And, Looking On It With Lack-lustre Eye, Says Very Wisely, "it Is Ten O'clock: Thus We May See," Quoth He, "how The World Wags."

Since Brass, Nor Stone, Nor Earth, Nor Boundless Sea, But Bad Mortality O'ersways Their Power, How With This Rage Shall Beauty Hold A Plea, Whose Action Is No Stronger Than A Flower?