THUS on  tuneful  sung,
The Mountain echo'd, and the Valley rung,
The sacred Groves a fix'd Attention show,
The chrystal  forbore to flow,
The Sky grew bright, and (if his Verse be true)
The  came to give the Laurel too.
But what avail'd the verdant Prize of Wit,
If  swore Vengeance for the Tales he writ?
Ye fair offended, hear your Friend relate
What heavy Judgment prov'd the Writer's Fate,
Tho'  it happen'd, no Relation clears,
'Tis thought in five, or five and twenty Years.