So, are ye content to sail by your compass, and come in fair hour to your port;
For North points the needle!
And now, will ye censure, because, of compulsion, the spirit that rules in this breast,
To show what a poet must show, was attempered, and touched with a cureless unrest,
Swift to be moved with all human mutation, to traverse passion’s whole range?
Mood succeeds mood, and humor fleets humor, yet never heart’s drift can they change,
For North points the needle!
Inconstant I were to that Sovereign Bidding (why or whence given unknown),
Failed I to tent the entire round of motive ere sinking back to my own:
The error be yours, if ye think my faith erring or deem my allegiance I fly;