Repair this mouldering cell, Temperance should guard the doors; There let them rest unknown, TO A LADY FITTING UP HER LIBRARY. AH! what is science, what is art, What can the tedious tomes bestow, Say, wretched Fancy! thus refined The polish'd bard, of genius vain, Sages, with irksome waste of time, Yet why, Asteria, tell us why Who can unpleased your shelves behold Where are our humbler tenets flown ? ANACREONTIC. 'Twas in a cool Aonian glade A vagrant muse drew nigh, and found She said, yet leave the world to weep? But hush-from this auspicious hour Sleep on, poor child! whilst I withdraw, That magic fount-ill-judging maid! |