ODE XLIV

Away,
Fond man! thy braine is Sicke; thy Quill doth stray;
There is noe Cause of Discontent,
Soe farre should move thee, to lament;
Distressed Fancie doth obscure
Thy Reason, in the Calenture
Of Passion.
Erect thy understanding, to
The Cause imagined, of thy woe;
Which is noe Cause, but a pretence;
Which Reason Sicke, unto the Sence
Doth Fashion.
In Sober numbers, sing away
Thy Sorrowes; or at lest allay
The Apprehension of thy Ill;
Take, take againe, thy modest Quill;
And yet retaine, the Libertie thy Muse
Would Chuse.