Shall not repent my passion for the stage.
Thus did the will almighty disallow,
No human force could pluck the golden bough,
Which left the tree with ease at Jove's command,
And spar'd the labour of the weakest hand.
Auspicious fate! that gives me leave to write
To you, the muses' glory and delight;
Who know to read, nor false encomiums raise,
And mortify an author with your praise:
Praise wounds a noble mind, when 'tis not due,