To warble the domestic lay,
And wand'ring to the desert isle,
On whose parch'd sands no seasons smile,
In distant Ithaca was seen
Chanting the suit-repelling Queen.
Mimnermus tuned his amorous lay,
When time had turn'd his temples grey;
Love revell'd in his aged veins,
Soft was his lyre, and sweet his strains;
Frequenter of the wanton feast,