The good he scorn'd Stalk'd off reluctant, like an ill-us'd ghost, Not to return; or if it did, its visits Like those of angels, short, and far between.

Its visits, like those of angels, short, and far between.

When it draws near to witching time of night.

How blunt are all the arrows of thy quiver in comparison with those of guilt.

The grave, dread thing! Men shiver when thou'rt named: Nature appalled, Shakes off her wonted firmness.

The common damn'd shun their society.

The tap'ring pyramid, the Egyptian's pride, And wonder of the world, whose spiky top Has wounded the thick cloud.