He knew no shame, he dreaded no disgrace.
It seem'd, so well his passions he suppressed,
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No feeling stirr'd his ever-torpid breast;
Him might the meanest pauper bruise and cheat,
He was a footstool for the beggar's feet;
His were the legs that ran at all commands;
They used on all occasions Richard's hands.
His very soul was not his own; he stole
As others order'd, and without a dole;