Think'st thou there are no serpents in the world But those who slide along the grassy sod, And sting the luckless foot that presses them? There are who in the path of social life Do bask their spotted skins in Fortune's sun, And sting the soul.
Tis ever thus when favours are denied; All had been granted but the thing we beg: And still some great unlikely substitute-- Your life, your soul, your all of earthly good-- Is proffer'd, in the room of one small boon.