Like noble courser, roadster’s borne them many a mile.

They now begin to wail, distress’d, and ask the way.

They knock at ev’ry door they see, they beg, they pray:

“The stealer of our courser was a little child.

What horse is this, my master? Seems it not too wild?”235

“O yes, a horse it is; but not the horse you want.

Come to your senses, man; to some one else go chant.”

The soul is void of patency and fellowship.

Thou, like a wine-jar, full within, hast parched lip.

How shouldst thou e’er distinguish red from green or brown,