Truly， my Satan， thou art but a dunce，

And dost not know the garment from the man；

Every harlot was a virgin once，

Nor canst thou ever change Kate into Nan.

Tho' thou art worship'd by the names divine

Of Jesus and Jehovah， thou art still

The Son of Morn in weary Night's decline，

The lost traveller's dream under the hill.