Thou , whom the Nine with Plautu's wit inſpire ,*
The art of Terence , and Menander's fire;
Whoſe ſenſe inſtructs us , and whoſe humour charms,
Whoſe judgement ſways us , and whoſe ſpirit warms!
Oh ! skill'd in nature ! ſee the hearts of ſwains,
Their artleſſ paſſions , and their tender pains.
Now ſetting Phœbus shome ſerenely bright ,
And fleecy clouds were ſtreak'd with purple light;
When tuneful Hylas with melodious moan
Taught rocks to weep , and made the mountains groan.