To clasp thy crooked shoulders, blest Lepeaux!
So, with dark dirge athwart the blasted heath,
Three Sister Witches hail'd th' appall'd Macbeth.
So, the Three Fates beneath grim Pluto's roof,
Strain the dun warp, and weave the murky woof;
Till deadly Atropos with fatal shears
Slits the thin promise of th' expected years,
While midst the dungeon's gloom or battle's din,
Ambition's victims perish, as they spin.
Thus, the Three Graces on the Idalian green