BUT what is Candour, what is Humour's vein,
Tho' Judgment join to consecrate the strain,
If curious numbers will not aid afford,
Nor choicest music play in ev'ry word?
Verses must run, to charm a modern ear,
From all harsh, rugged interruptions clear:
Soft let them breathe, as Zephyr's balmy breeze;
Smooth let their current flow as summer seas;
Perfect then only deem'd when they dispense
A happy tuneful vacancy of sense.
Italian fathers thus, with barb'rous rage,
Fit helpless infants for the squeaking stage;
Deaf to the calls of pity, Nature wound,
And mangle vigour for the sake of sound.
Henceforth farewell then, fev'rish thirst of fame;
Farewell the longings for a Poet's name;
Perish my Muse; — a wish 'bove all severe
To him who ever held the Muses dear,
If e'er her labours weaken to refine
Th' gen'rous roughness of a nervous line.