What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, Of Attic taste?

Ah, why should all mankind For one man's fault, be condemned, If guiltless?

First Moloch, horrid king, besmirched in blood, Of Human sacrifice, and parent's tears, Though, for the noise of drums and timbrels loud, Their childrens' cries unheard, that passed through fire, To his grim idol.

For such kind of borrowing as this, if it be not bettered by the borrowers, among good authors is accounted Plagiarè.

And, when night Darkens the streets, then wander forth the sons Of Belial, flown with insolence and wine.

God has set labor and rest, as day and night to men successive.

Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay To mould me man? Did I solicit thee From darkness to promote me?