BALLAD. (Art one of those mad wags, whose…)

Art one of those mad wags, whose brain, Intruder reason can't contain, Who are of such unruly minds, They buffet waves and split the winds;

In blanket robe, and crown of straw, Who to mad subjects deal mad law? If this 'tis makes thy bosom swell, Hie good Demoniac to thy cell.

Or art thou drunk—a frenzy too, One of that hair-brain'd, noisy crew, Who vigils keep at Bacchus' shrine, And drown good reason in bad wine;

Every desire in life who think Compris'd in a desire to drink? If by this demon thou'rt possessed, Hie thee good drunkard home to rest.

Or art in love, and so gone mad? Dost go with folded arms? art sad? Dost sigh? dost languish? dost play pranks? For which contempt is all thy thanks?

Dost pant? dost long for some frail charms, Devoted to another's arms? Is this thy madness, stupid elf? Hie thee away, and hang thyself!