Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes:
The glorious fault of angels and of gods:
Thence to their images on earth it flows, 15
And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows.
Most souls, ’tis true, but peep out once an age,
Dull sullen prisoners in the body’s cage:
Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years,
Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres; 20
Like eastern kings a lazy state they keep,
And, close confined to their own palace, sleep.