For gods and godesses, who traffic
In cantos, odes, and lays seraphic,
Who erst Arcadian whistle blew sharp,
Or now attune Apollo’s jews-harp,
Have sworn they will not loan me, gratis,
Their jingling sing-song apparatus,
Nor teach me how, nor where to chime in
My tintinabulum of rhyming.[2]
What then occurs? A lucky hit—
I’ve found a substitute for wit;