But man, who knows no good unmix'd and pure,
Oft finds a poison where he sought a cure;
For grave deceivers lodge their labours here,
And cloud the science they pretend to clear:
Scourges for sin, the solemn tribe are sent;
Like fire and storms, they call us to repent;
But storms subside, and fires forget to rage.
are eternal scourges of the age:
'T is not enough that each terrific hand
Spreads desolation round a guilty land;
But train'd to ill, and harden'd by its crimes,
Their pen relentless kills through future times.