Permit these Lines by thee to live—nor blame
A Muse that pants and languishes for fame,
That fears to sink when humbler themes she sings,
Lost in the mass of mean forgotten things.
Receiv'd by thee I prophesy my Rhymes
The praise of virgins in succeeding times:
Mix'd with thy works their life no bounds shall see,
But stand protected as inspir'd by thee.
TO SUPPOSED AUTH. OF SPECT.
Why praise we, prodigal of fame,
The rage that sets the world on flame?
My guiltless Muse his brow shall bind
Whose godlike bounty spares mankind. ODE TO SUNDERLAND.
Simple I, and innocent of art,
The tale that sooth'd my infant years impart,
The tale I heard whole winter-eves untir'd,
And sing the battles that my nurse inspir'd. KENS. GARDEN.
By Nature fitted for an humble theme,
A painted prospect or a murm'ring stream,
To tune a vulgar note in Echo's praise,
Whilst Echo's self resounds the flatt'ring lays,
Or whilst I tell how Myra's charms surprise
Paint roses on her cheeks and suns within her eyes. OXFORD.