Yet Thou, whose worth might sweeter sounds inspire,
Indulge these efforts of a youthful lyre:
No flatt'ring purpose has the Muse in view,
Tho' prompt to praise, wherever Praise is due;
Averse to flatter, cautious to commend,
Hardly she sooths the frailties of a Friend.
But sick of the insipid senseless train,
For Thee she feels the animated strain:
O be she sacred to the wife and good!
Nor prostitute her praises to the croud;
With whom less pleas'd than pain'd, her lyre unstrung,
Upon a neighb'ring willow useless hung;
Till gentle deeds, and corresponding Love
Impell'd the sympathetic strings to move
To Nature's harmony; while artless lays,
To  and  tun'd, grow music in their praise.