O'er prostrate Towns and Palaces they pass,
(Now cover'd o'er with Weeds, and hid in Grass)
Breathing Revenge; whilst Anger and Disdain
Fire ev'ry Breast, and boil in ev'ry Vein:
Here shatter'd Walls, like broken Rocks, from far
Rise up in hideous Views, the Guilt of War,
Whilst here the Vine o'er Hills of Ruin climbs,
Industrious to conceal great  Crimes.