Which god-delighting men have for their drinking,
And which from shuttling colours takes a glance
As though culled blossoms from a rainbow-garden
By Iris’ very hands thereon were strown,
When in this fount, that from Parnassus springs,
A troubling stone is flung, it falls to boiling
And starts in wheeling turmoil hilly-high.
Then sings no more on earth the nightingale
Nor evermore the lark, and in the heights
A dumbness holds the Muses’ holy choir,