And all the sky with borrowed lustre glows:
Again shall please, the sweets of spring,
And fancy ever on the wing,
Assay to cull Pierian flowers,
And spend the chearful smiling hours;
When at the muses’ shrine I bow,
In waving garlands for thy brow:
Nor thou my friend, the humble boon refuse,
Tho’ mean the gift, pure are the giver’s views.
Yet think not, partial friend, thy Clara vain,