Menander’s muse offended, soon reproved
My error, and the lyre and pastoral pipe
Snatch’d from me, and the clarion of Mars.
“Follow,” she said to me, “the only track
Which my voice indicates, if thou wouldst seek
The honour, that despite of silent death,
May make thy name immortal. I in love
A thousand times upon thy infant lip
Have printed a soft kiss, and bade thee sleep
To the repeated heavenly tones I raised.