My thoughts hang on me, and my lab'ring breath
Stopp'd up with sighs, my fancy, big with woes,
Feels two twinn'd mountains struggle in her throes,—
Of boundless sorrow one,—t' other of sin;—
For less let no one rate it, to begin
Where honour ends.—In great Gustavus' flame,
That style burnt out, and wasted to a name,
Does barely live with us. As when the stuff
10That fed it, fails, the taper turns to snuff,
With this poor snuff, this airy shadow, we