Bid the unhallow'd crowd avaunt!Keep holy silence; strains unknownTill now, the Muses' hierophant,I sing to youths and maids alone.Kings o'er their flocks the sceptre wield;E'en kings beneath Jove's sceptre bow:Victor in giant battle-field,He moves all nature with his brow.This man his planted walks extendsBeyond his peers; an older nameOne to the people's choice commends;One boasts a more unsullied fame;One plumes him on a larger crowdOf clients. What are great or small?Death takes the mean man with the proud;The fatal urn has room for all.When guilty Pomp the drawn sword seesHung o'er her, richest feasts in vainStrain their sweet juice her taste to please;No lutes, no singing birds again