With evil omens from the harbour sails
The ill-fated ship that worthless Arnold bears;
God of the read more

With evil omens from the harbour sails
The ill-fated ship that worthless Arnold bears;
God of the southern winds, call up thy gales,
And whistle in rude fury round his ears.

Treason is like diamonds; there is nothing to be made by the small trader.

Treason is like diamonds; there is nothing to be made by the small trader.

This principle is old, but true as fate,
Kings may love treason, but the traitor hate.

This principle is old, but true as fate,
Kings may love treason, but the traitor hate.

Is there not some chosen curse,
Some hidden thunder in the stores of heaven,
Red with uncommon read more

Is there not some chosen curse,
Some hidden thunder in the stores of heaven,
Red with uncommon wrath, to blast the man
Who owes his greatness to his country's ruin?

For while the treason I detest,
The traitor still I love.

For while the treason I detest,
The traitor still I love.

Some guard these traitors to the block of death,
Treason's true bed and yielder up of breath.

Some guard these traitors to the block of death,
Treason's true bed and yielder up of breath.

O that a soldier so glorious, ever victorious in fight,
Passed from a daylight of honor into the terrible read more

O that a soldier so glorious, ever victorious in fight,
Passed from a daylight of honor into the terrible night;
Fell as the mighty archangel, ere the earth glowed in space,
fell--
Fell from the patriot's heaven down to the loyalist's hell!

Though those that are betrayed
Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor
Stands in worse case read more

Though those that are betrayed
Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor
Stands in worse case of woe.

Thou know'st, great son,
The end of war's uncertain, but this certain,
That, if thou conquer Rome, read more

Thou know'st, great son,
The end of war's uncertain, but this certain,
That, if thou conquer Rome, the benefit
Which thou shalt thereby reap is such a name
Whose repetition will be dogged with curses,
Whose chronicle thus writ: 'The man was noble,
But with his last attempt he wiped it out,
Destroyed his country; and his name remains
To th' ensuing age abhorred,' Speak to me son.
Thou hast affected the fine strains of honor,
To imitate the graces of the gods;
To tear with thunder the wide cheeks o' th' air,
And yet to change thy sulphur with a bolt
That should rive an oak.