But I'm relapsing into Metaphysics,

That labyrinth, whose clue is of the same

Construction as your cures for hectic phthisics,

Those bright moths fluttering round a dying flame:

And this reflection brings me to plain Physics,

And to the beauties of a foreign dame,

Compared with those of our pure pearls of price,

Those polar summers, all Sun, and some ice.[LU] [641]