Are quite cutaneous, foreign to the man,
When, through death’s straits, earth’s subtle serpents creep,
Which wriggle into wealth, or climb renown.
As crooked Satan the forbidden tree, 458
They leave their party-colour’d robe behind,
All that now glitters, while they rear aloft
Their brazen crests, and hiss at us below.
Of fortune’s fucus[45] strip them, yet alive;
Strip them of body, too; nay, closer still,
Away with all, but moral, in their minds;