Thou, fate! fulfil it; and, ye powers! approve!
What God but enters yon forbidden field,
Who yields assistance, or but wills to yield,
Back to the skies with shame he shall be driven,
Gash’d with dishonest wounds, the scorn of Heaven;
Or far, oh far, from steep Olympus thrown,
Low in the dark Tartarean gulph shall groan;
With burning chains fix’d to the brazen floors,
And lock’d by hell’s inexorable doors;
As deep beneath th’ infernal centre hurl’d,