His whirling throne Turns short at will, or runs directly on.
The rapid follies which his axle bear, Are short fallacious hope and certain fear; And many a promise given of Halcyon days, Whose faint and dubious gleam the heart betrays.
I know what secret flame the marrow fries, How in the veins a dormant fever lies; Till, fann'd to fury by contagious breath, It gains tremendous head, and ends in death.
I know too well what long and doubtful strife Forms the dire tissue of a lover's life; The transient taste of sweet commix'd with gall, What changes dire the hapless crew befall.
Their strange fantastic habitudes I know, Their measured groans in lamentable flow; When rhyming-fits the faltering tongue employ, And love sick spasms the mournful Muse annoy; The smile that like the lightning fleets away, The sorrows that for half a life delay; Like drops of honey in a wormwood bowl, Drain'd to the dregs in bitterness of soul.
BOYD..