[Insanity.]

III. 149.

God grant I grow not insane: No, better the stick and beggar's bag: No, better toil and hunger bear.

Not that I upon my reason Such value place; not that I Would fain not lose it.

If freedom to me they would leave How I would lasciviously For the gloomy forest rush!

In hot delirium I would sing And unconscious would remain With ravings wondrous and chaotic.

And listen would I to the waves And gaze I would full of bliss Into the empty heavens.

And free and strong then would I be Like a storm the fields updigging, Forest-trees uprooting.

But here's the trouble: if crazy once, A fright thou art like pestilence, And locked up now shalt thou be.

To a chain thee, fool, they 'll fasten And through the gate, a circus beast, Thee to nettle the people come.

And at night not hear shall I Clear the voice of nightingale Nor the forest's hollow sound,

But cries alone of companions mine And the scolding guards of night And a whizzing, of chains a ringing.