Ask you the cause?—The cause they will not tell:
Nor need they: oh the sorceries of Sense!
They work this transformation on the soul; 1190
Dismount her, like the serpent at the fall,
Dismount her from her native wing (which soar’d
Erewhile ethereal heights), and throw her down,
To lick the dust, and crawl in such a thought.
Is it in words to paint you? O ye fallen!
Fallen from the wings of Reason, and of Hope!
Erect in stature, prone in appetite!