alt=Or if we wish a fourth, it is a friend— But friends how mortal! dangerous the desire. Take Phoebus to yourselves, ye basking bards! Inebriate at fair fortune's fountain-head; And reeling through the wilderness of joy; * Where sense runs savage broke from reason's chain, And sings false peace, till smother'd by the pall. My fortune is unlike; unlike my song; Unlike the DEITY my song invokes. I to day's soft-eyed sister pay my court, Endymion's rival! and her aid implore; Now first implored in succour to the muse. Thou who didst lately borrow Cynthia's form, And modestly forego thine own! O thou Who didst thyself, at midnight hours, inspire! Say, why not Cynthia patroness of song? As thou her crescent, she thy character Assumes; still more a goddess by the change. Are there demurring wits, who dare dispute This revolution in the world inspired? Ye train pierian! to the lunar sphere, In silent hour address your ardent call For aid immortal less her brother's right. She, with the spheres harmonious, nightly leads The mazy dance, and hears their matchless strain; A strain for gods, denied to mortal ear. Transmit it heard, thou silver queen of heaven! What title or what name endears thee most? Cynthia! Cyllene! Phoebe!—or dost hear With higher gust fair P—d of the skies?
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