Thou my delight wast ever, and my care;
And the propitious gifts, which Nature shed
On thee, it was my joy to cultivate.
Now with loud festive acclamation sounds
Thy country’s scene in thy just praise, on high
Thy glory to affirm. Thou follow on
To sacred Helicon, which Cynthia bathes
With her immortal light, the Muses’ crown
Of ivy and of laurel there to gain.”
Be not offended, Sir, if e’er so poor