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When Athens heard her pensive son displayHis boast, of three immortal lines a day;When Maro doom'd, with his expiring sigh, Troy's second glory, like the first, to die; Afraid, as he had held the lyre so long,Lest some rude note had marr'd the matchless song:Gone are those unblest times, for ever flown,Which bade the Poet wear a hard-earn'd crown, See glorious days arise, a golden age,Which calls to fame the humbler minstrel's page.Bound by no rules, the courteous reader nowIs pleas'd, he knows not why, and cares not how. Call'd to partake the plain but plenteous feast,He loves his host, a cheerful grateful guest; Nor asks a richer sauce, a choicer bowl,To lure the taste, or raise th' exhausted soul.
