They drop their maggots in the trifler’s brain:
That genia soil receives the fruitful store,
And there they grow, and breed a thousand more.
Now be their arts display’d, how first they choose
A cause and party, as the bard his Muse;
Inspired by these, with clamorous zeal they cry,
And through the town their dreams and omens fly;
So the Sibylline leaves were blown about,
Disjointed scraps of fate involved in doubt;
So idle dreams, the journals of the night,