Thou sure wert not the stone—let critics cavil!—
Of quack M.D. who lectur'd on the gravel.
Did e'er fat Falstaff, wreathing 'neath his cup
Of glorious sack, unable to reel home,
Sit on thy breast, and give his fancy up,
The all that wine had given pow'r to roam,
And left the mind in gay, but dreamy talk,
Wakeful in wit when legs denied to walk?
Did e'er wise Shakspeare brood upon thy mass,
And whimsey thee to any wondrous use