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And kindly leave ye nought to do but toil! This creature now, with all his reptile cunning, Writhing and turning thro' a maze of wiles, Believes his genius form'd to rule mankind, And calls his sordid wish for territory, That noblest passion of the soul, ambition: Born had he been to follow some low trade, A petty tradesman still he had remain'd, And us'd the arts with which he rules a state, To circumvent his brothers of the craft, Or cheat the buyers of his paltry ware. And yet he thinks, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! I am the tool and servant of his will. Well, let it be; thro' all the maze of trouble His plots and base oppression must create, I'll shape myself a way to higher things, And who will say 'tis wrong? A sordid being who expects no faith But as self-interest binds, who would not trust The strongest ties of nature on the soul, Deserves no faithful service. Perverse fate! Were I like him I would despise this dealing; But being as I am, born low in fortune, Yet with a mind aspiring to be great, I must not scorn the steps which lead to it: And if they are not right, no saint am I; I follow nature's passion in my breast, Which urges me to rise, in spite of fortune. [