The guests are mute as if upon their beds;
Their hair uncurl’d hangs from their listening heads.
By the verses as they flow,
By their meaning nothing though,
Full of tropes and flowers;
By those lofty rhymes that dwell
In the mind of Bunn[43] so well,
Like love in Paphian bowers.
By the lines that he has made,
Working at the poet’s trade—