Or if we wish a fourth, it is a friend—
But friends, how mortal! dangerous the desire.
Take Phœbus to yourselves, ye basking bards! 19
Inebriate at fair fortune’s fountain-head;
And reeling through the wilderness of joy;
Where sense runs savage, broke from reason’s chain,
And sings false peace, till smother’d by the pall.
My fortune is unlike; unlike my song;
Unlike the deity my song invokes.
I to Day’s soft-eyed sister pay my court