(A limping leader, but a lofty bard)[1]
Though walled Ithome had resisted long,
Reduced the fortress by the force of song.
When Oracles prevailed, in times of old,
In song alone Apollo's will was told.[2]
Then if your verse is what all verse should be,
And Gods were not ashamed on't, why should we?
The Muse, like mortal females, may be wooed;[3]
In turns she'll seem a Paphian, or a prude;690
Fierce as a bride when first she feels affright,
Mild as the same upon the second night;
Wild as the wife of Alderman or Peer,
Now for His Grace, and now a grenadier!
Her eyes beseem, her heart belies, her zone—
Ice in a crowd—and Lava when alone.
If Verse be studied with some show of Art,
Kind Nature always will perform her part;
Though without Genius, and a native vein
Of wit, we loathe an artificial strain,700
Yet Art and Nature joined will win the prize,
Unless they act like us and our allies.
