“Yes, and the bard by love imprest,
Or sacred grief, hath sought my shade;
And there the anguish of his breast
In mournful poesy display’d.
“Henceforth then, herb, to me give place,
Long shall my charms be sung by fame,
While all thy tawdry, worthless race
Bloom and expire without a name.”
A Hermit from his rocky cell,
With pity the contention heard,