Chapter LX

The poison well’d from Circe’s treacherous cups
Beyond the shape, with fell designment, work’d;
Had thought not pander’d to nectareous sups,
And, brute-like, veiled what beastly semblance lurk’d,
Sure change had mock’d his aim, by death and spleen.
’Tis bounteous Nature smoothes the wrinkled brow,
Bellying with pride the front that looks too lean:
She plants conceit in gaping brains enow;
She salves with flattery some unequal wounds,
Impartial measures grief for men and years;
One age inglorious slumbers on and swounds;
One moistens deathless leaves with blood and tears:
All drink, and die, but oh! how deep a draught,
E’er separate life’s a blessing, must be quafft.