Near him Earth’s nursling, Tityus, I saw,
Stretched o’er nine acres, with, to fill its maw,
A hook-beaked vulture clawing at his breast
For the liver e’er eaten, ne’er at rest;
Since growing ever, putting on new flesh;
So, the Thing gropes for dainties ever fresh.
Myriad Crime’s forms—Dis for all has room.
Kinship that should nurse kindness, rings its doom;
Virtues that have turned strangers into friends,
Oft change brothers and sisters into fiends.