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 Or some full flame which with a pride aspires, Throwing about his wild and active fires; 'Tis thou, above nectar, O divinest soul! Eternal in thyself, that can'st control That which subverts whole nature, grief and care, Vexation of the mind, and damn'd despair. 'Tis thou alone who, with thy mystic fan, Work'st more than wisdom, art, or nature can To rouse the sacred madness and awake The frost-bound blood and spirits, and to make Them frantic with thy raptures flashing through The soul like lightning, and as active too. 'Tis not Apollo can, or those thrice three Castalian sisters, sing, if wanting thee. Horace, Anacreon, both had lost their fame, Had'st thou not fill'd them with thy fire and flame. Phœbean splendour! and thou, Thespian spring! Of which sweet swans must drink before they sing Their true-pac'd numbers and their holy lays, Which makes them worthy cedar and the bays. But why, why longer do I gaze upon Thee with the eye of admiration? Since I must leave thee, and enforc'd must say To all thy witching beauties, Go, away. But if thy whimpering looks do ask me why, Then know that nature bids thee go, not I. 'Tis her erroneous self has made a brain