When through the nations stalks contagion wild,
⁠We from them cautiously should steal away,
⁠E'en I have oft with ling'ring and delay
Shunned many an influence, not to be defiled.

And e'en though Amor oft my hours beguiled,
⁠At length with him preferred I not to play,
⁠And so, too, with the wretched sons of clay,
When four and three-lined verses they compiled.

But punishment pursues the scoffer straight,
⁠As if by serpent-torch of furies led
⁠⁠From hill 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.