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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.


 * , '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;