And he whose mother was a muse,
Whose voice could tenderness infuse
To solid rocks, strange monsters quell’d,
And Hebrus in his course withheld.
Envy, stand clear, or thou shalt rue
Th’ attack, for glory is my due.
Thus having wrought upon your ear,
I beg that you would be sincere,
And in the poet’s cause avow
That candor, all the world allow.