Now, sit you down, and write what I shall say,—
The last bright glimmerings of the taper's ray.
I'll shew you how to pen those strains so well,
Of which the meaning no one e'er could tell.
Send forth the women;—draw a little nigher;
My brain is heating with prophetic fire.
Rig. Fun. Matrons, abscond! (They depart glumpishly; carrying
off the Mediciner.) Now, Dad, I'm all attention,
To learn the wisdom that's past comprehension.
Moore. "The fiery Mars with furious fury rages."