And, though a slave’s death be a little thing,
Send thou the avenging hand with full requital,
To pay my murderers back, as they have paid.
Alas! the fates of men! their brightest bloom
A shadow blights; and, in their evil day,
An oozy sponge blots out their fleeting prints,
And they are seen no more. From bad to worse
Our changes run, and with the worst we end.[n84] [Exit.
Chorus.
Men crave increase of riches ever