Silence, audacious wickedness which aims
At honour's breast, or strikes with driftless breath,
The lightest word that's spoken thus defames,
And where it falls, inflicts a moral death.
If with malign, deliberate intent,
The shaft is sped, the bow that vibrates yet,
One day will hurt the hand by which 'tis bent,
And leave a wound its malice justly met.
For once the winged arrow is sent forth,
Who then may tell where, when, or how 'twill fall?
Or, who may pluck its barb from wounded worth,
And send it back, and swiftly too withal.