Thus when with soaring wings I seek renown,Thou pluck'st my pinions, and I flutter down.Could I on such mean thoughts my muse employ,I want a mistress, or a blooming boy."Thus I complain'd; his bow the stripling bent,And chose an arrow fit for his intent.The shaft his purpose fatally pursues;" Now, poet, there's a subject for thy muse,"He said: (too well, alas, he knows his trade,)For in my breast a mortal wound he made.Far hence ye proud Hexameters remove,My verse is pac'd, and tramell'd into love.With myrtle wreaths my thoughtful brows enclose,While in unequal verse I sing my woes.