LXXII.

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]