Art thou not precious metal, sensible
To vision as to touch? or art thou but
A sovereign of the mind, a false sensation,
Proceeding from the beer-oppressed brain?
I feel thee yet, a coin as palpable
As this I now produce.
Thou hint’st to me the side whereon I’m going;
And such a candidate I am to choose.
My conscience is the weakest of my senses,
Which should rule all the rest. I feel thee still—