There, while the Muses, wanton, unconfin'd,
And wreaths resplendent round their temples bind,
'Tis yours, to strew their steps with votive flowers;
To watch them slumbering midst the blissful bowers;
To guard the shades that hide their sacred charms;
And shield their beauties from unhallow'd arms!
Oh! may their suppliant steal a passing kiss?
Alas! he pants not for superior bliss;
Thrice-bless'd, his virgin modesty shall be
To snatch an evanescent ecstacy!
The fierce extremes of superhuman love,
For his frail sense too exquisite might prove;
He turns, all blushing, from th'Aönian shade
To humbler raptures, with a mortal maid.

I know 'tis yours, when unscholastic wights
Unloose their fancies in presumptuous flights,
Awak'd to vengeance, on such flights to frown.
Clip the wing'd horse, and roll his rider down.
But, if empower'd to strike th'immortal lyre.
The ardent vot'ry glows with genuine fire,
'Tis yours, while care recoils, and envy flies
Subdued by his resistless energies,
'Tis yours to bid Piërian fountains flow,
And toast his name in Wit's seraglio;
To bind his brows with amaranthine bays,
And bless, with beef and beer, his mundane days!
Alas! nor beef, nor beer, nor bays are mine,
If by your looks, my doom I may divine,
Ye frown so dreadful, and ye swell so big