A NEIGHBOUR, now, shall aged Sibyl have, For I'll withdraw to Cuma's sacred cave, Where I, Vesuvius-like, when year attire My head with snow, shall still maintain my fire. In hatred of the World my days I'll spend, Till with despite my wretched life shall end; My haughty plumes I've clipp'd, I'll soar no more, So the Fates cut what they had spun before. I was, when bad, of virtuous men despis'd, And by the scourge vice brings with it, chastis'd; That course I left, and turning good again, Was hated, and oppress'd by wicked men. Thus seems the partial world on all sides bent, Its utmost spite on wretched me to vent. My sins were fruitless: must, when life is done, Virtue lie buried in oblivion? |