ODE XXIX.
[This Dullnes is improper to the Day]
1
This Dullnes is improper to the Day;
And I am Sad, not in a common way;
My Fancie, Darke as night,
And fixéd; all the Light
Of Reason fled;
And I am dead
Vnto my selfe; I seeke
A Thousand waies to breake
The Cloud which doth involve me, and invade
With a strange Mist, the little light I had.
2
I cannot speake what I would strive to say,
And what I most would doe, I most delay;
I doe not know my Thought;
Or rather I thinke nought
Which can be knowne;
I'me not my owne
Disposer to the poore
Follies of everie howre;
And common Things I can noe more intend,
Then grave Designes; but from all purpose bend.
3
How am I Stupid? How below my thought?
Am I to Sottishnes and nothing brought?
I doe not breath as once,
But closed in Ignorance
I seeme to dwell,
As in a Shell;
Where my close-breathing tires
My Lungs, in oft respires;
And fainting, all my Spirrits loose their vse:
Why am I choack'd? why am I stifled thus?
