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How must this strike a horror through the breast,
Through every generous breast where Honour reigns,
Through every breast where Honour claims a share;
Yes, and through every breast of Honour void!
This thought might animate the dregs of men;
Ferment them into spirit; give them fire
To fight the cause, the black opprobrious cause,
Foul core of all,—corruption at our hearts.
What wreck of empire has the stream of Time
Swept, with their vices, from the mountain height
Of grandeur, deified by half mankind,

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To dark Oblivion's melancholy lake,
Or flagrant Infamy's eternal brand!
Those names at which surrounding nations shook,
Those names adored, a nuisance, or forgot!
Nor this the caprice of a doubtful die,
But nature's course; no single chance against it.
For, know, my Lord, 'tis writ in adamant,
'Tis fix'd, as is the basis of the world,
Whose kingdoms stand or fall by the decree.