That we are still for fire dependent On so false a spark. IX And so fond! for you hold immortal What has been born a day or two! "But it was destined?" Ay, your portal Only has God to heed—and you! He with his thrice three million thirsting Worlds in the throes of death and life Surely has time to spare for choosing Your behooven wife! X By my faith, there is not a creature Mad as a poet, pants the breeze! Give him a mistress and he'll preach her As creation's Masterpiece. [Pg 40] Let him but lean for half an hour Over her lips and he will swear That he would dive thro death unfathomed
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