I come but like a Harbinger, being sent To tell you what these preparations mean Look for no glorious state, our Muse is bent Upon a barren subject: a bare scene. We could afford this twig a Timber tree, Whose strength might boldly on your favours build; Our Russet, Tissue; Drone, a honey-bee; Our barren plot, a large and spacious field; Our coarse fare, banquets; our thin Water, Wine; Our Brook, a Sea; our Bat's eyes, Eagle's sight° Our Poet s dull and earthy Muse, Divine; Our Ravens, Doves; our Crow's black feathers, white. But gentle thoughts when they may give the foil, Save them that yield, and spare where they may spoil.

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