'Arimanius frown'd,
The author foul of evil, how with shades
From his dire mansion, he deform'd the works
Of Oromazes; turn'd to noxious heat
The solar beam, that foodful Earth might parch,
That streams exhaling might forsake their beds,
Whence pestilence and famine...
If the hand of Oromazes, on precarious life
Shed wealth and pleasure, swift the infernal God
With wild excess, or avarice, blasts the joy.
But yet at last, shall Arimanius fall
Before his might, and evil be no more.'