What Comes From The Heart Goes To

Our Quaint Metaphysical Opinions, In An Hour Of Anguish, Are Like Playthings By The Bedside Of A Child Deathly Sick.

When Thieves Come, I Bark; When Gallants, I Am Still - So Perform Both My Master's And Mistress's Will.

Call Not That Man Wretched, Who Whatever Else He Suffers As To Pain Inflicted, Or Pleasure Denied, Has A Child For Whom He Hopes And On Whom He Doats.

Poor Little Foal Of An Oppressed Race! I Love The Languid Patience Of Thy Face.

But Metre Itself Implies A Passion , I.e. A State Of Excitement, Both In The Poet's Mind, & Is Expected In That Of The Reader.