In what infernal posture of the soul,
All hell invited, and all hell in joy
At such a birth, a birth so near of kin, 900
Did thy foul fancy whelp so black a scheme
Of hopes abortive, faculties half-blown,
And deities begun, reduced to dust?
There’s nought (thou say’st) but one eternal flux
Of feeble essences, tumultuous driven
Through Time’s rough billows into Night’s abyss.
Say, in this rapid tide of human ruin,