Too low they build, who build beneath the stars.
Woe then apart (if woe apart can be
From mortal man), and fortune at our nod,
The gay, rich, great, triumphant, and august!
What are they?—The most happy (strange to say!)
Convince me most of human misery; 220
What are they? Smiling wretches of to-morrow! 221
More wretched, then, than e’er their slave can be;
Their treacherous blessings, at the day of need,
Like other faithless friends, unmask, and sting: