Tis Not Ev'Ry Day That I Fitted Am To Prophesy: No, But When The Spirit Fills The Fantastic Pannicles, Full Of Fire, Then I Write As The Godhead Doth Indite. Thus Enraged, My Lines Are Hurl'D, Like The Sibyl'S, Through The World: Look How Next The Holy Fire Either Slakes, Or Doth Retire; So The Fancy Cools: Till When That Brave Spirit Comes Again.