But when the boils and blotches, with disgrace
And public scandal, sat upon the face,
}
Themselves attacked, the Magi strove no more, }
They saw God's finger, and their fate deplore; }
Themselves they could not cure of the dishonest sore.[168] }
Thus one, thus pure, behold her largely spread,
Like the fair ocean from her mother-bed;
From east to west triumphantly she rides,
All shores are watered by her wealthy tides.