The Parrot, who now was expiring to speak,
Twirl’d his ebony tongue, and then op’ning his beak,
In a tone of importance, without hesitation,
Directly began a high-sounding oration.
“Sir Argus, no mortal could e’er have desir’d,
More exquisite verses than those you’ve inspir’d.
[p10] The Muse has for you, indeed, tried all her art,
And with envy, no doubt, has fill’d many a heart:
I wonder not, then, you are anxious to know
From whose pen these strains of sweet harmony flow.