’Twill fit us for declining age,
And for the awful tomb.
Fawcett.
O deem not that Religion’s hallowed name
Is justly given to deeds of guilt and shame.
Deem not she loves the faggot and the steel,
The blood-stained hand, the heart untaught to feel.
Trace not her footsteps in the princely hall,
Where Borgia’s father held high festival.
She flees from haunts of guilt, nor heeds her voice