'Tis not ev'ry day, that I Fitted am to prophesie: No, but when the Spirit fils The fantastick Pannicles: Full of fier; then I write As the Godhead doth indite. Thus inrag'd, my lines are hurl'd, Like the Sybells, through the world. Look how next the holy fier Either slakes, or doth retire; So the Fancie cooles, till when That brave Spirit comes agen. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...RIDDLE: TEETH AND GUMS by MOTHER GOOSE SWEET MEETING OF DESIRES by COVENTRY KERSEY DIGHTON PATMORE ASTROPHEL AND STELLA: 84 by PHILIP SIDNEY THE WANDERER'S RETURN by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT THE MODERN VERSION (TO A LUCY STONER) by BERTON BRALEY |