Where we’re all alike transgressors?

Who will venture then to plead

His foul-borrow’d title-deed?

Will the old answer profit yet:

“From my father dates my debt?”

O, abysmal as the night,

Riddle, who can read thee right!

But the people dance light-footed,

Heedless by the dizzy brink;

Where the soul should cry and shrink,