XVIII
The Spirit
‘T is whiter than an Indian pipe,‘T is dimmer than a lace;No stature has it, like a fog,When you approach the place.
Not any voice denotes it here,Or intimates it there;A spirit, how doth it accost?What customs hath the air?
This limitless hyperboleEach one of us shall be;‘T is drama, if (hypothesis)It be not tragedy!