 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
208
MISANTHROPIC.
How long am I to smell this tainted air,And in a pest-house draw my daily breath,
Where nothing but the sordid fear of death
Restrains from grander guilt than cowards dare?
O loathsome, despicable, petty race,
Low counterfeits of devils, villanous men,
Sooner than herd with any human face
I'll make my home in the hyæna's den
Or live with newts and bullfrogs in the fen,
For these at least are honest;—but—with man,
The best will cheat and use you if he can;
The best is only varnished o'er with grace,
Subtle for self, for damning mammon keen,
Cruel, luxurious, treacherous, proud, and mean.
| Three Hundred Sonnets | |