My temples throb, my pulses boil,
I'm sick of Song and Ode and Ballad -
So Thyrsis, take the midnight oil,
And pour it on a lobster salad.
My brain is dull, my sight is foul,
I cannot write a verse, or read -
Then Pallas, take away thine Owl,
And let us have a Lark instead.
Thomas Hood.