Chapter_11

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Yet wiser such, than he whom blank despair

And fostered grief’s ungainful toil enslave;

Lodged in whose furrowed brow thrives fretful care,

Sour graft of blighted hope; who, when the wave

Of evil rushes, yields⁠—yet claims to rave

At his own deed, as the stern will of heaven.

In sooth against his Maker idly brave,

Whom e’en the creature-world has tossed and driven,

Cursing the life he mars, “a boon so kindly given.”