Classic Poem

How long am I to smell this tainted air,
And in a pest house draw my daily breath,
Where nothing but the sordid fear of death
Restrains from grander guilt than cowards dare?
O, loathsome, despicable, petty race,
Low counterfeits of devils, villanous men,
Sooner than learn to love a human face,
I'll make my home in the hyaena's den,
Or live with newts and bull-frogs on the fen:
These at least are honest; — but for man,
The best will cheat and use you if he can;
The best is only varnish'd o'er with good;
Subtle for self, for damning Mammon keen,
Cruel luxurious, treacherous, proud, and mean —
Great Justice, haste to crush the viper's brood:
And I too am — a man! — O, wretched fate!
To be the thing I scorn — more than I hate.