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 I. 
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Or, (meaner still,) instead of grasping air,
For sordid lucre plunge we in the mire?
Drudge, sweat, through every shame, for every gain,
For vile contaminating trash; throw up
Our hope in heaven, our dignity with man,
And deify the dirt, matured to gold?
Ambition, Avarice! the two demons these,
Which goad through every slough our human herd,
Hard travell'd from the cradle to the grave.
How low the wretches stoop! how steep they climb!
These demons burn mankind; but most possess
Lorenzo's bosom, and turn out the skies.