Hands that the sword of Nero might have sway’d,
And ’midst the carnage tun’d th’ exulting lyre.
Ambition to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with such monstrous crimes, did n’er unroll;
Chill Penury repress’d their native rage,
And froze the bloody current of the soul.
Full many a youth, fit for each horrid scene,
The dark and sooty flues of chimnies bear;
Full many a rogue is born to cheat unseen,
And dies unhang’d for want of proper care.