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are days abject when, seduced by joys,
 * Of Honour reft,

The peoples serve success, and follow noise:
 * What then is left?

Then from such peoples, lulled by fatal dreams
 * In swoon-like sleep,

Virtue flows out, as blood from sword-wounds' streams,
 * And angels weep.

Then—then, before all Evil, Folly, Crime,
 * They, but to live,

Bend like vile reeds—bow, bow, they say, in time,
 * And offerings give.

Then revels reign; then whispers of the soul
 * Are heard no more,

They eat, drink, sing, nor care they, if they roll
 * In mire and gore.

Then happy Crime, by brazen tools obeyed,
 * Seems half a god,

But bones of heroes quiver as afraid,
 * Beneath the clod.