Th'invention all admir'd, and each, how he to be th'inventor miss'd; so easy it seem'd once found, which yet unfound most would have thought impossible.
Let none admire that riches grow in hell; that soil may best deserve the precious bane.
Execute their airy purposes.
Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones.
Seas wept from our deep sorrows.
Farewell happy fields, Where joy forever dwells: Hail, horrors, hail.