Whose spirits music knows not to advance?
Or who could listen to her roundelay,
Nor lift one longing, lingering leg to dance?
On some smart air the active heel relies,
Some sprightly jig the springing foot requires;
E’en to a march the moving spirits rise,
E’en in a minuet wake our youthful fires.
For Thee, who, mindful of th’ unhonour’d dead,
Dost in these lines the Guardian’s Tale relate,
If chance, by love of Elegy misled,