Rouse up, you surely dream!
I’ve rack’d my brains until they fairly ache;
Come, help me now, sweet Muse, for pity’s sake;
You know I can’t a single couplet make
Worth any thing, till you my genius wake.
What! art thou drowsy still?
Come now, I’ll take it ill,
If, at my need, you serve me so;
O! surely you don’t mean to go!
Fold up your tiny wing,