No — said someone — The gods think fit to care Nowise for mortals, such As those by whom the good and fair Of things denied their touch Is trampled! but he was profane. That they do care, has been made plain To offspring of the over-bold, Outbreathing Ares greater than is just — Houses that spill with more than they can hold, More than is best for man. Be man’s what must Keep harm off, so that in himself he find Sufficiency — the well-endowed of mind! For there’s no bulwark in man’s wealth to him Who, through a surfeit, kicks — into the dim And disappearing — Right’s great altar.
 Yes — It urges him, the sad persuasiveness, Até’s insufferable child that schemes Treason beforehand: and all cure is vain. It is not hidden: out it glares again, A light dread-lamping-mischief, just as gleams The badness of the bronze; Through rubbing, puttings to the touch, Black-clotted is he, judged at once. He seeks — the boy — a flying bird to clutch, The insufferable brand Setting upon the city of his land Whereof not any god hears prayer; While him who brought about such evils there,