’Tis thine, O Conscience! thine alone—
It all belongs to thee.
Mickle.
What terrestial woe can match
The self-convicted bosom, which hath wrought
The bane of others, or enslaved itself
With shackles vile? Not poison, nor sharp fire,
Nor the worst pangs that ever monkish hate
Suggested, or despotic rage imposed,
Were at that season an unwished exchange;