Mis-shapen forms, ghastly and horrible;—
And mixes, in the chaos of the brain,
Terrors, half real, half unnatural;—
Till nature, struggling under the oppression,
Rouses the sleeping wretch,—who starts, and wipes
The chilly drop from off his clay-cold temples;
And fain would call for help, yet dares not utter,
But trembles on his couch, silent and horror struck!
Adeline. Attempt not to dissuade me; I am fix'd.