Thy voice; and Echo will our words report.
Lycon. Though my rude rhymes, ill with thy verses frame,
That others far excel: yet will I force
Myself to answer thee the best I can;
And honour my base words with his high name.
But if my plaints annoy thee where thou sit
In secret shade or cave; vouchsafe, O Pan!
To pardon me; and hear this hard constraint
With patience, while I sing; and pity it.
And eke ye rural Muses, that do dwell