When first my feeble verse essay’d

Of heavenly joys to sing,

Fancy was summon’d to my aid

Her choicest stores to bring.

With studied words each rising thought

I deck’d, with nicest art,

And shining metaphors I sought

To burnish every part.

Thousands of notions swift did run,

And fill’d my labouring head;

I blotted oft what I begun,—

This was too flat, that dead.

To clothe the sun, no dress too fine

I thought, no words too gay;

Much less the realms that glorious shine

In one eternal day.

Meanwhile I whispering heard a Friend.

“Why all this vain pretence?

Love has a sweetness ready penn’d;

Take that, and save expense.”