Ingratitude

He has profan'd the sacred name of friend And worn it into vileness: With how secure a brow, and specious form, He gilds the secret villain! Sure that face Was meant for honesty, but heav'n mismatch'd it; And furnish'd treason out with nature's pomp, To make its work more easy. See how he sets his countenance for deceit, And promises a lie before he speaks.

—Where Ingratitude, that sin of upstarts, And vice of cowards, once takes root, a thousand Base, grov'ling crimes cling round its monstrous growth, Like ivy to old oaks, to hide its rottenness.