Christ on their lips…

Christ on their lips, hazarding their souls– never any strange illusions of salvation, but accordingly I will descend to particulars. Of a melancholy that extends itself to all– I speak of small animals and of dark anatomies.  There is a trepidation perceived in them all– which is especially perceived from a high hill.  It is true that there is a natural antipathy between the singular and the plural.   It is also true that if you put a bird in a cage it will die from asphyxiation.  But who is unaware of these common horrors?  I will speak of others.
The poets are most subject to this malady.   From the violence of melancholy, they run mad and away.   I could relate many stories of poets that have died from grief, but they are common in every province and every body politic; their particular symptoms are as follows:

Uncivil, but obedient to the effect of expectation – with their tears, vows, and all their rhetoric, they are the ones who languish in many fair built and populous cities, and are made mute by the closing of a door.
Or is it that there are so many that they have become ‘a commonwealth of disease.’?


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