Forsaken by th' inspiring Nine,
I waited at Apollo's shrine:
I told him what the world would say,
If Stella were unsung to day:
How I should hide my head for shame,
When both the Jacks and Robin came;
How Ford would frown, how Jim would leer,
How Sheridan the rogue would sneer,
And swear it does not always follow,
That semel in anno ridet Apollo.
I have assur'd them twenty times,
That Phœbus help'd me in my rhymes;
Phœbus inspir’d me from above,
And he and I were hand and glove.
But, finding me so dull and dry since,
They'll call it all poetick licence;
And when I brag of aid divine,
Think Eusden's right as good as mine.
Nor do I ask for Stella's sake;
'Tis my own credit lies at stake:
And Stella will be sung, while I
Can only be a stander by.
Apollo, having thought a little,
Return'd this answer to a tittle.
Though you should live like old Methusalem,
I furnish hints, and you shall use all 'em,
You yearly sing as she grows old,
You'd leave her virtues half untold.
But, to say truth, such dulness reigns,
Through the whole set of Irish deans,
I'm daily stunn'd with such a medley,
Dean W—, dean D—, and dean Smedley,
That, let what dean soever come,
My orders are, I'm not at home;
And
