By foreign Wars intestine Factions thrive,
The Dam destroy'd, the Imps not long survive;
Tumultuous Hurry an Advantage gives
Both to the little, and the greater Thieves.
A guilty Act is in Confusion hid,
When busy Times a nicer Search forbid;
So crafty Fish are of clear Streams afraid,
And hide in Eddies, which themselves have made.
Touch'd with the Rose the jetty Beetle dies,
And from the spicy Hills the Vultur flies;
So baser Souls abhor the  of Peace,
Whose private Gains by publick Loss increase.
When noisy Storms pour on the dropping Leaves,
The pensive Lark retires, and silent grieves;
But chatt'ring Birds joy at th'expected Flood,
And with mixt Clamours watch the teeming Cloud;
For then (a grateful Prey) the horned Snail,
And Worms o'er moisten'd Clods their folding Bodies trail.
Designing Men the publick Welfare hate,
Who cannot rise but on a ruin'd State.
Base Souls will alway keep their native Stain,
And rooted Passions will th'Ascendant gain.
The Worm, when once become a spotted Fly,
And born on gawdy Wings it mounts on high,
Unchang'd admires the Ordure, whence it sprung,
And feeds with Pleasure on its native Dung.