If heathen poets rave o’er fancied woe,
While in a turgid stream their numbers flow—
Whether the tragic buskin tread the stage,
Or waggish Geta all our thoughts engage;
If by the art of song they still revive
The taint of ill, and bid old vices live;
If monumental guilt they sing, and lies
Commit to books in magisterial wise;
Why may not I, who list to David’s lyre,
And reverent stand amid the hallowed choir,