’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 enrag’d, my lines are hurled, Like the Sybil’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.