Forgive, ye Bards, th’ involuntary fault,
If love parental shall no trophies raise,
Where in th’ Orchestra’s low sequestered vault
The coxcomb Fidler plies his arm for praise.
Can pensive Arne, with animated strain,
Back to its audience call his fleeting Play?
Can Music’s voice the hand of death restrain,
Or soothing sounds prolong the fatal day?
Perhaps, ere this, he many an Opera made,
Which, though not pregnant with celestial fire,