Come on, my Muse, nor stoop to low Despair,
Thou Imp of  touch'd by celestial Fire!
Thou yet shalt sing of War, and Actions fair,
Which the bold Sons of BRITAIN will inspire;
Of ancient Bards thou yet shalt sweep the Lyre;
Thou yet shalt tread in Tragic Pall the Stage,
Paint Love's enchanting Woes, the Heroe's Ire,
The Sage's Calm, the Patriot's noble Rage,
Dashing Corruption down through every worthless Age.