Thy mother Leisure, sweet and fair,
And Health thy Father, stout and strong.
Come, ’tis of thee I make my song.
First let me pray the tuneful Nine
To aid me with a ray divine,
To guide me as I sweep the string,
And teach me rightly how to sing;
For, sooth, no classic bard, I deem,
Could ever find a nobler theme;
Nay, garbed in language rich and terse,