He, from the ever-living lyre,
With magic hand elicits fire.
Heard ye the din of modern Rhymer’s bray?
It was cool Mason, or warm Gray
Involv’d in tenfold smoke
The shallow fop, in antic vest,
Tir’d of the beaten road,
Proud to be singularly drest,
Changes, with ev’ry changing moon the mode.
Say, shall not then the heaven-born Muses too