"How when the Fancy, lab'ring for a birth,
With unfelt Throws brings its rude issue forth:
How after, when imperfect, shapeless thought
Is by the judgment into Fashion wrought,
When at first search I traverse o'er my mind,
Nought but a dark and empty void I find:
Some little hints at length like sparks break thence,
And glimmering thoughts just dawning into sense:
Confus'd awhile the mixt ideas lie,
With nought of mark to be discover'd by,