Some fancies, like small gnats, buzz in the brain,
And2 by the hand of worldly cares are slain.
But they do sting so sore the poet’s head,
His mind is blistered, and his3 thoughts turn4 red.
Nought can take out this5 burning heat and pain 5
But pen and ink, to write on paper plain.
Then6 take the oil of fame, and ’noint7 the mind,
And this will8 be a perfect cure, you’ll find.
Similizing Fancy to a Gnat
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