A blush o’erspreads the suppliant’s cheeks—
“What!—Half this wreath, wit’s mighty chief?—
O grant,” he cries, “one single leaf;
That far o’erpays his humble merit,
Who’s but the organ of thy spirit.”
Phoebus the generous contest heard—
When thus the god address’d the bard:
“Here, take this laurel from my brow,
On him your mortal wreath bestow;—
Each matchless, each the palm shall bear,