Dismounted from the high-aspiring hills,
Which the all-empty airy kingdom fills,
Leaving the scorched mountains threat’ning heaven
From whence fell fiery rage my soul hath driven,
Passing the down-steep valleys all in haste,
Have tripped it through the woods; and now, at last,
Am veiled in a stony sanctuary,
To save my ire-stuffed soul lest it miscarry,
From threat’ning storms o’erturning verity,
That shames to see truth’s refined purity.
Those open plains, those high sky-kissing mounts,
Where huffing winds cast up their airy accounts
Were too too open, shelter yielding none,
So that the blasts did tyrannize upon
The naked carcass of my heavy soul,
And with their fury all my all control.
But now, environed with a brazen tower,
I little dread their stormy raging power.
Witness this black defying embassy,
That wanders them before in majesty,
Undaunted of their bugbear threat’ning words,
Whose proud aspiring vaunts, time past records.
Now windy parasites or the slaves of wine, —
That wind from all things save the truth divine,
Wind, turn, and toss into the depth of spite,
Your devilish venom cannot me affright,
ft is a cordial of a candy taste,
I’ll drink it up, and then left run at waste ——
Whose druggy lees mixed with the liquid flood
Of muddy fell defiance as it stood, —
I’ll belch into your throats all open wide,
Whose gaping swallow nothing runs beside.
And if it venom, take it as you list: —
He spites himself, that spites a satirist.