But who can count her follies? She betrays thee,
To think in grandeur there is something great.
For works of curious art, and ancient fame,
Thy genius hungers, elegantly pain’d;
And foreign climes must cater for thy taste.
Hence, what disaster!—Though the price was paid, 1010
That persecuting priest, the Turk of Rome,
Whose foot (ye gods!) though cloven, must be kiss’d,
Detain’d thy dinner on the Latian shore;
(Such is the fate of honest Protestants!)