And burn impatient for his promised skies.
The bad, on each punctilious pique of pride,
Or gloom of humour, would give rage the rein;
Bound o’er the barrier, rush into the dark, 432
And mar the schemes of Providence below.
What groan was that, Lorenzo?—Furies! rise,
And drown in your less execrable yell
Britannia’s shame. There took her gloomy flight,
On wing impetuous, a black sullen soul,
Blasted from hell, with horrid lust of death;