Black drips the ooze that you secrete on all 
That Honour's burin graves or Love holds dear: 
At sacrifice you laugh, at virtue sneer, 
And sour rebellion's must, the waking thrall 
Would ripen into Freedom, with the gall 
Of green suspicion. God of drones, you hear 
Mutter of plots in all Success: on seer 
And saint behold your own foul motives crawl. 
O Gluttony that would but dare not gorge! 
Theft of the heart that dreads the handcuff! Hate, 
Too cowardly to hurl the bolts you forge! 
And Lust that fears to pluck the flowers you smell! 
Too low your lintel to seduce the great! 
The meanest of the Seven doors of Hell!