Strip modest merit of its last half-crown;
Blow from thy mildew’d lips, on virtue blow,
And blight the goodness thou canst never know.
• • • • • • • •
But what is he that with a Mohawk’s air,
Cries havock, and lets slip the dogs of war?
A blotted mass, a gross unkneaded clod,
A foe to man, a renegade from God,
From noxious childhood to pernicious age,
Separate to infamy, through every stage.”