The happiest you, of all that e’er were mad, 175
Or are, or shall be, could this folly last.
But soon your heaven is gone; a heavier gloom
Shuts o’er your head: and, as the thundering stream,
Swoln o’er its banks with sudden mountain rain,
Sinks from its tumult to a silent brook; 180
So, when the frantic raptures in your breast
Subside, you languish into mortal man;
You sleep, and waking find yourself undone.
For prodigal of life in one rash night