Bion Idyl. 4

'TIS the effect of Love, not servile Fear,
The Muses fit their Songs to Cupid's Ear:
Proud at his feet to lay their Scepters down,
And pay Allegiance to their Soveraign's Crown.
'Tis only Love inspires Apollo's Lute,
Without that Harmony the Musick's Mute.
The Harp of Eloquence, Venus fairly won
At Pythian Games, a Present for her Son.
Orpheus may tune up his Melodious Strings,
Yet none so sweetly as the Siren sings.
For that Apostate (an eternal shame
Confound the Rebel, and his hateful Name!)
Whose Actions all run counter to his Oath,
His debauch'd Judgment counter to them both;
Dull scribling Traytor, who would fain infuse
Treason into the heart of every Muse;
The wholsome streams of our Parnassus mud
Wirh nasty Dregs of Wine, and Lakes of Bloud;
With cold admittance thinks to baffle Love,
Blasphemously the God a Bastard prove;
Shall flagging flie, and in those flights still fall:
Parnassus Doves for him produce a Gall.
In vain he calls, and swells, and splits his Lungs,
Cupid has gagg'd their mouth, or ty'd their tongues;
But he that with His Inspiration sings,
Scorns the mean thredbare stile of warlike Kings,
Iambick Rage, great words, or mighty things:
But in a soft, a smooth, a gentle strain,
Shall ease (and without pangs) his teeming Brain;
Shall as a Priest at Cupid's Altar wait,
And daily numerous Offerings consecrate.
His Reason never in Eclipse decay,
Nor he want fire to animate his Clay.
Etesian Gales of Wit, Invention blow,
And Passion with Perfection joyntly flow.
Nature intent, whilst this her Master sings,
And Immortality mount him on her Wings.
His Plaudits shall be eccho'd through the World,
Himself to the Elysian Mansions hurl'd.
By good Experience part my self can prove,
I never write so well, as when I write of Love.