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Courts the coy muses, tho' rejected still,
Nor nature seconds his misguided will:
He strives, he toils with unavailing care;
Nor heav'n relents, nor Phœbus hears his pray'r.
He with success, perhaps, may plead a cause,
Shine at the bar, and flourish by the laws;
Perhaps discover nature's secret springs,
And bring to light th' originals of things.
But sometimes precept will such force impart,
That nature bends beneath the pow'r of art.

Besides, 'tis no light province to remove
From the rash boy the fiery pangs of love;
'Till, ripe in years, and more confirm'd in age,
He learns to bear the flames of Cupid's rage;
Oft' hidden fires on all his vitals prey,
Devour the youth, and melt his soul away
By slow degrees; --- blot out his golden dreams,
The tuneful poets, and Castalian streams;
Struck with a secret wound, he weeps and sighs;
In every thought the darling phantoms rise;