As when the treach'rous quicksand bids
Unwary rustic swain tread path unsure,
Though seeming firm, he sets his cloddish foot
In obstinate bog, and sinks precipitate
Through ooze profound, drinking the while his fill
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Of filth and slime, so Satan's crafty spouse,
The mistress Sin, sore-tempts her hellish mate
To leave his thoughts of vengeance absolute
And find consolement rare and sweet in arms
Of carrion concubine. His brutish mind
With jocund thoughts lascivious inflamed
Envisions bliss renewed (O world of vain
Delights!) in license rude, and like the Jove
False pagans fabled takes on bestial form
(With his foul temperament agreeing best)
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Where Did the Plot Go?
