With this he drives men's souls to hell.
Now to apply, begin we then:—
His wand's a modern author's pen;
The serpents round about it twined
Denote him of the reptile kind,
Denote the rage with which he writes,
His frothy slaver, venom'd bites:
An equal semblance still to keep,
Alike, too, both conduce to sleep;
This difference only,—as the god