Beyond the search of Art, ’tis copious blessed.
For, with hot ravin fired, ensanguined Man
Is now become the Lion of the plain
And worse. The Wolf, who from the nightly fold
Fierce drags the bleating Prey, ne’er drank her milk,
Nor wore her warming fleece; nor has the Steer,
At whose strong chest the deadly Tiger hangs,
E’er ploughed for him. They, too, are tempered high,
With hunger stung and wild necessity,
Nor lodges pity in their shaggy breast.