And, as the priests who with their gods make bold,
Take what they like, and sacrifice the rest.
209.
But ah! how insincere are all our joys!
Which sent from heaven, like lightning, make no stay;
Their palling taste the journey's length destroys,
Or grief, sent post, o'ertakes them on the way.
210.
Swelled with our late successes on the foe,
Which France and Holland wanted power to cross,