All read with pleasure, when they read with love.
There are no passions to the Muse unknown—
Fear, sorrow, hope, joy, pity are her own.
She gives to each the strength, the tone, the power,
By varying moods to suit the varying hour;
She plays with each, and veils in changing robes
The grief she pities, and the love she probes.
’Tis hers for we the sullen smile to feign, }
And Laughter lend to Envy’s rankling pain, 20}
Soft Pity’s look to Scorn, mild Friendship’s to Disdain. }