Nor cause of being, with this riotous balm,—
To sweat, to stint, to travail, and to fall
Sheer out of time in night. Begone, thou Gloom!
Away, thou Shape of ill! Come when the tomb,
’Twixt this and that omnipotent time
Each tottering moment shall be packed with twice
Its fraught of pleasures; or come surfeit, to illume
The shadow of joy, shall every rare device
Rivet the transient hour. Tread yon dread way?
Nay, that I will not! Unto thee I turn,