As A Bad Orator, Badly O'Er-Book-Skilled, Doth Overflow His Purpose With Made Heat, And, Like A Clock, Winds With Withoutness Willed What Should Have Been An Inner Instinct'S Feat; Or As A Prose-Wit, Harshly Poet Turned, Lacking The Subtler Music In His Measure, With Useless Care Labours But To Be Spurned, Courting In Alien Speech The Muse'S Pleasure; I Study How To Love Or How To Hate, Estranged By Consciousness From Sentiment, With A Thought Feeling Forced To Be Sedate Even When The Feeling'S Nature Is Violent; As Who Would Learn To Swim Without The River, When Nearest To The Trick, As Far As Ever.