When the soul loathes herself, when flying thence,
To crowds, on every brow she sees pourtrayed
Fell demons, hate or scorn, which drive her back
To solitude, her Judge’s voice divine,
To hear in secret, haply sounding through
The troubled dreams of midnight, and still, still
Demanding for his violated laws
Fit recompense; or charging her own tongue
To speak the award of justice on herself.
Akenside.