Who would believe that hard and arid stone,
Which hath no principle of light nor heat,
Doth in itself inactive fires secrete
With luminous existence of their own!
For if against another one be thrown,
Or joining with the steel you sharply beat,
A stream of sparks burst forth whene'er they meet,
At each concussion, from the shock alone.
With his entreaties thus, by many a stroke,
Within my breast the dormant seeds of song
The Creditor of the Three Groats awoke;
Whence soon a flame ignited clear and bright,
Till, burning round him vividly and strong,
Poetic Farthing-candles it did light.