Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove!
Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance,
Or the rapture that dwells on the first kiss of love!
Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with phantasy glow,
Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove,
From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow,
Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love!
If Apollo should e’er his assistance refuse,
Or the Nine be disposed from your service to rove,
Invoke them no more; bid adieu to the muse,