Shall brain-wove fiction then alone inspire
The enraptur’d poet’s adulating lays?
If heav’n-born Truth attune her golden lyre,
Where are his boasted honours, where his bays?
Like conscious guilt, which seeks the shades of night,
They fly from truth’s investigating light.
Now let the god himself appear,
Midst all the sport of mingled dance:
What sounds discordant strike mine ear,
As Bacchus and his crew advance.