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anguiſh, have wrapt, in ribs of braſs, his ruthleſs heart; and, with iron entrails, have armed him to grind, without remorſe, the palpitating limbs of agonizing life? But has Nature wing'd, with fleetneſs, the feet of man, to over take the flying prey? and where are his fangs to tear aſunder the creatures deſtined for his food? Glares in his eye-ball the luſt of carnage? Does he ſcent afar the footſteps of his victim? Does his foul pant for the feaſt of blood? Is the boſom of man
D2
the
