Thy matter cramps thy genius, learn to findA manly subject, and exert thy mind.In songs for girls, fond toys, and idle play,Thy muse has wanton'd all her hours away.But youth at length has fill'd its measure up;My friend, 'tis time to taste of t'other cup.Now in my service let thy force be shown,Assert my honour, and retrieve thy own;Thy sprightly fancy, and inventive wit,The lofty style of tragic scenes will fit."She said; and proudly rising in her gait,Thrice shook her tresses, and display'd her state.With open look (nor was my sight beguil'd)And joyous eyes her rival sweetly smil'd;Sustain'd her hand a myrtle branch upright?Or did my fancy form the charming sight?