The angry storms of Fortune soon may lour
A wretched Prison may precede the grave.
Not ev’n can Virtue’s sacred name defend;
For round the good, and near the bad await,
The one t’afflict, the other to amend,
The never-failing ministers of Fate.
Perhaps within this sad abode may pine,
A heart once pregnant with Celestial fire,
Souls, that to warlike deeds do still incline,
And hands, that still might wake the living lyre: