Ocean in Earth’s infancy swelled with pride,
And lightly laid its empty threats aside;
Laughing tides might mean treachery, or not;
Mortals could plead no wreck to prove a plot;
Famine slew a good few in the Age of Flint;
Surfeit’s as homicidal as is stint;
For themselves poisoned meats rude nomads dressed;
With polished art we serve them to a guest!
A stage on; huts, plaited boughs; men therein
Who stripped for clothes their prey of fur and skin.