His rod revers'd, And backward mutters of dissevering power.
Now conscience wakes despair That slumber'd,-wakes the bitter memory Of what he was, what is, and what must be Worse.
Virtue hath no tongue to check vice's pride.
O fleeting joys Of Paradise, dear bought with lasting woes!
With a smile that glow'd Celestial rosy red, love's proper hue.
Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain.