Such my belief. Oh, that thou would’st thy bold,
Infatuated, withering doubt discard!
The flower would be more sweet, the moon more fresh,
The sun more bright, the sky more blue, the night
(The natural season for deep thought) less dark:
Life’s cares, and wan disease, would blessings be,
And death (annihilation’s herald now)
The harbinger of everlasting bliss.
Dare then be wise. Dash down the subtle web,
Thy pride of intellect had round thee wove,