Of nerveless yearnings, and lean, tearless Grief!
For Madness sometimes will give ear to Mirth;
Yes, I have seen him sooth’d into a smile:
But thou, O Locust! of the sickliest birth,
Gangren’st all humours with thy vapoury bile!
Not even Love—and Madness sits by Love,
And hears his tale, and sighs, and oft will weep:
While thou, worst horror of the wrath of Jove!
Would’st dash him headlong from the wildest steep!
I can no more.—Heav’n save me! lest despair