TO STREPHON. TO me his sighs, to me are all his vows, But there's my hell the depth of all my woes, We burn alike, but oh the distant bliss, A view of that my greatest torment is; Accurst ambition, groveling interest, Such heated crimes as yet did never rest Within my Soul, must now unjustly keep Me from my Heaven would they may sink as deep, As that black Chaos whence they sprung, and leave Those mortals wretched which they now deceive.