Your judgment best can tell.
Th' old British Bards (upon their harps
For falling Flats, and rising Sharps,
That curiously were strung)
To stir their Youth to warlike rage,
Or their wild fury to assuage,
In these loose Numbers sung.
No more I, for fools' censure pass,
Than for the braying of an ass;
Nor once mine ear will lend them: