Imagination in a poet is a faculty so wild and lawless that, like a high ranging spaniel, it must have clogs tied to it, lest it outrun the judgment. The great easiness of blank verse renders the poet too luxuriant. He is tempted to say many things which might better be omitted, or, at least shut up in fewer words.

The winds are out of breath.

Riches cannot rescue from the grave, which claims alike the monarch and the slave.

Pity only on fresh objects stays, but with the tedious sight of woes decays.

So the false spider, when her nets are spread, deep ambushed in her silent den does lie.

How easy 'tis, when Destiny proves kind, With full-spread sails to run before the wind!

And nobler is a limited command, Given by the love of all your native land, Than a successive title, long and dark, Drawn from the mouldy rolls of Noah's Ark.