Some petty Chartres, that with dauntless breast
Each call of worth or honesty withstood;
Some mute, inglorious Wilmot[4] here may rest;
Some * * * * * * *, guiltless of his steward’s blood.
The votes of venal senates to command,
The worthy man’s opinion to despise,
To scatter mischiefs o’er a trusting land,
And read their curses in a nation’s eyes,
Their lot forbad; nor circumscrib’d alone
Their groveling fortunes, but their crimes confin’d;