And when a damp

Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand

The thing became a trumpet; whence he blew

Soul-animating strains,—alas! too few.

William Wordsworth (1770-1850): Scorn not the Sonnet.

Unless an age too late, or cold

Climate, or years, damp my intended wing.

John Milton (1608-1674): Paradise Lost. Book ix. Line 44.