Nemesis.

WHEN through the nations stalks contagion wild, We from them cautiously should steal away. E'en I have oft with ling'ring and delay Shunn'd many an influence, not to be defil'd. And e'en though Amor oft my hours beguil'd, At length with him preferr'd I not to play, And so, too, with the wretched sons of clay, When four and three-lined verses they compil'd. But punishment pursues the scoffer straight, As if by serpent-torch of furies led From bill to vale, from land to sea to fly. I hear the genie's laughter at my fate; Yet do I find all power of thinking fled In sonnet-rage and love's fierce ecstasy.