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?"Still so severe, 0, tragedy ! (she cried);And canst thou ne'er forego thy sullen pride?I not compare my lowly lays to thine;Too weak materials for the vast design.The style unlabour'd, negligent the dress,My verse is humbler, and my matter less.Gay, wanton, soft, my business is to move,With melting strains, the playful god of love.Bereft of me, fair Venus wants her charms,I help the goddess, and prepare her arms.