Where feeble happiness, like Vulcan, lame,
Bids foul ideas, in their dark recess,
And hot as hell (which kindled the black fires),
With wanton art, those fatal arrows form,
Which murder all thy time, health, wealth, and fame.
Would’st thou receive them, other thoughts there are,
On angel-wing, descending from above, 1001
Which these, with art divine, would counterwork,
And form celestial armour for thy peace.
In this is seen Imagination’s guilt;