9. Not Every Day Fit for Verse
’Tis not ev’ry day that IFitted am to prophesy:No, but when the spirit fillsThe fantastic pannicles,Full of fire, then I writeAs the Godhead doth indite.Thus enraged, my lines are hurl’d,Like the Sibyl’s, through the world:Look how next the holy fireEither slakes, or doth retire;So the fancy cools:—till whenThat brave spirit comes again.