And a laurell’d bard to boot, laud thee, oh my Warren, in epic
Verse, both peasant and peer will echo thy name o’er the West end,
And thus shall it be with the man whom S—y delighteth to honour,
Already I hear thy puffs discussed in the circle at Almack’s,
Dusking with sable shade the light of the Scotch Ariosto
Already I hear them arranged for the violincello by Smart, and
Melting on syren lips in lieu of Italian bravuras:
Braham at Drury Lane, the Stephens at proud Covent Garden,
Dwell on each soul stirring rhyme as a lover dwells on the moonlight,
When by its virgin beam his nymph hurries onward to kiss him.