Ay, and old motets, and canzonets,
And glees, in sets, kept boring his ear.
He tried to sleep,—but it wouldn’t do;
So loud they squall’d, he must attend to ’em;
Though Cherub’s songs, to his cost he knew,
Were like themselves, and had no end to ’em.
Oh! judgment dire on judges bold,
Who meddle with music’s sacred strains!
Judge Midas tried the same of old,
And was punish’d, like H-nl-y, for his pains.