She sung—amaz'd the Sirens heard
And to assert their voice appear'd.
She play'd, the Muses from their hill,
Marvell'd who thus had stole their skill;
Apollo's wit was next her prey,
Her next the beam that lights the day;
While Jove her pilferings to crown,
Pronounc'd these beauties all her own;
Pardon'd her crimes, and prais'd her art,
And t'other day she stole—my heart.