One labour more indulge! then sleep, my strain! 21
Till, haply, waked by Raphael’s golden lyre,
Where night, death, age, care, crime, and sorrow, cease;
To bear a part in everlasting lays;
Though far, far higher set, in aim, I trust,
Symphonious to this humble prelude here.
Has not the Muse asserted pleasures pure,
Like those above; exploding other joys?
Weigh what was urged, Lorenzo! fairly weigh;
And tell me, hast thou cause to triumph still? 30