They mock my toil — the nymphs and am'rous swains —
And whence this fond attempt to write, they cry,
Love-songs in language that thou little know'st?
How dar'st thou risque to sing these foreign strains?
Say truly. Find'st not oft thy purpose cross'd, [ 5 ]
And that thy fairest flow'rs, Here, fade and die?
Then with pretence of admiration high--
Thee other shores expect, and other tides,
Rivers on whose grassy sides
Her deathless laurel-leaf with which to bind [ 10 ]
Thy flowing locks, already Fame provides;
Why then this burthen, better far declin'd?
Speak, Muse! for me.--The Fair One said who guides
My willing heart, and all my Fancy's flights,
"This is the language in which Love delights." [ 15 ]