Once Fortune’s minion, now thou feel’st her power;
Wrath’s vial on thy lofty head bath burst.
In Wit, in Genius, as in Wealth the first,
How wondrous bright thy blooming morn arose!
But thou went smitten with th’ unhallow’d thirst
Of crime un-named, and thy sad noon must close
In scorn, and solitude unsought, the worst of woes.
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I.
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