'tis Not Enough To Help The Feeble

As Soon Go Kindle Fire With Snow, As Seek To Quench The Fire Of Love With Words.

You See Me Here, You Gods, A Poor Old Man, As Full Of Grief As Age; Wretched In Both.

O Love, Be Moderate, Allay Thy Ecstasy, In Measure Rain Thy Joy, Scant This Excess!

The Moon's An Arrant Thief, And Her Pale Fire She Snatches From The Sun.

So Full Of Shapes Is Fancy That It Alone Is High Fantastical.