To all, proportioned terms he must dispense, And make the sound a picture of the sense. - Christopher Pitt

Thrice round her neck my eager arms I threw;
Thrice from my empty arms the phantom flew,
Swift as the wind, with momentary flight,
Swift as a fleeting vision of the night.

But oh! may Earth her dreadful gulf display,
And gaping snatch me from the golden day;
May I be hurled, by Heaven's almighty fire,
Transfixed with thunder, and involved in fire,
Down to the shades of Hell, from realms of light,
The deep, deep shades of everlasting night.

Ah, mighty Queen! you urge me to disclose,
And feel, once more, unutterable woes.