And brainsick passion;
For, after all, true men of sense will say,—
Their works can never parallel thy play.
'Twere fond to pamper spleen, 'cause owls detest
The light of day;
Or real nonsense, which endures no test,
Condemns thy play.
Lodge not such petty trifles in thy breast,
But bar their sway;
And let them know, that thy heroic bays