WHEN through the nations stalks contagion wild, br We from them cautiously should steal away. br E'en I have oft with ling'ring and delay br Shunn'd many an influence, not to be defil'd. br And e'en though Amor oft my hours beguil'd, br At length with him preferr'd I not to play, br And so, too, with the wretched sons of clay, br When four and three-lined verses they compil'd. br But punishment pursues the scoffer straight, br As if by serpent-torch of furies led br From bill to vale, from land to sea to fly. br I hear the genie's laughter at my fate; br Yet do I find all power of thinking fled br In sonnet-rage and love's fierce ecstasy.