On the back of his fiddle, then drew a swift bow
’Crost its sensitive strings that the players might know
’Twas time to begin, but a fiddle-string snapped
And put things awry every time that he rapped;
Then tuning and strumming would vie with the horn
That was screeching a monotone strange and forlorn,
While Cupid accepted the timely delay
To lead the fond lovers aside and away.
And meanwhile the “Oracle” wrote some new rhymes
For the dances. Said he, “I write better at times.