The love-lorn nightingale nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well.

Hence, loathèd Melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born, In Stygian cave forlorn, 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy.

Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild.

Part of my soul I seek thee, and claim thee my other half

A poet soaring in the high reason of his fancies, with his garland and singing robes about him.

Rocks whereon greatest men have oftest wreck'd.

License they mean when they cry Liberty; For who loves that, must first be wise and good.