Every five minutes how the minutes go.
Each individual, suffering a constraint—
Poetry may, but colours cannot, paint—
As if in close committee on the sky,
Reports it hot or cold, or wet or dry,
And finds a changing clime a happy source
Of wise reflection and well-timed discourse.
We next inquire, but softly and by stealth,
Like conservators of the public health,
Of epidemic throats, if such there are