When the Sun sets, shadows, that shew'd at Noon
But small, appear most long and terrible;
So, when we think Fate hovers o'er our Heads,
Our apprehensions shoot beyond all bounds,
Owls, Ravens, Crickets seem the watch of death,
Nature's worst Vermine scare her God-like Sons.
Ecchoes the very leavings of a Voice,
Grow babling Ghosts, and call us to our Graves:
Each Mole-hill thought swells to a huge Olympus,
While we fantastick Dreamers heave and puff,
And sweat with an Imagination's weight.