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.