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 As o'er the mountain's height, The woodland Nymphs among, I wing my rapid flight, And tune my varied song, Sweet as the melody of swans,—that lave Their rustling pennons in the silver wave. Of the harmonious lay the Muse is sovereign still: Then let the minstrel follow, if he will— But not precede: whose stricter care should be, And more appropriate aim, To fan the lawless flame Of fiery youths, and lead them on   To deeds of drunkenness alone, The minister of revelry— When doors, with many a sturdy stroke, Fly from their bolts, to shivers broke, And captive beauty yields, but is not won. Down with the Phrygian pipe's discordant sound! Crackle, ye flames! and burn the monster foul To very ashes—in whose notes are found Nought but what's harsh and flat,—no music for the soul,— The work of some vile handicraft. To thee, Great Dithyrambus! ivy-tressèd king! I stretch my hand—'tis here—and rapidly My feet in airy mazes fling. Listen my Doric lay; to thee, to thee I sing.—

(Book xiv. § 15, p. 991.)

Now if a native Doctor prescribe, "Give him a porringer Of ptisan in the morning," we despise him. But in some brogue disguised 'tis admirable. Thus he who speaks of Beet is slighted, while We prick our ears if he but mention Bate, As if Bate knew some virtue not in Beet.

