Why sit the bad on their thrones of gold,
And trample Thine holy ones?
Why doth Virtue skulk where none may see
In the great world's corners dim?
And the just man mark the knave go free,
While the penalty falls on him?
No storm the perjurer's soul o'erwhelms,
Serene the false one stands:
He flatters, and Kings of mighty realms
Are as clay in his moulding hands.