Song

Cease to bid me not to sing.
Spite of Fate I'll tune my lyre:
Hither, god of music, bring
Food to feed the gentle fire;
And on Pægasean wing
Mount my soul enraptur'd higher.

Some there are who'd curb the mind,
And would blast the springing bays;
All essays are vain, they'll find,
Nought shall drown the muse's lays,
Nought shall curb a free-born mind,
Nought shall damp Apollo's praise.