With music and poetry equally blest,
A bard thus Apollo most humbly addrest:
“Great author of harmony, verses, and light!
Assisted by thee, I both fiddle and write.
Yet unheeded I scrape, or I scribble all day,
My verse is neglected, my tunes thrown away.
Thy substitute here, Vice Apollo, disdains
To vouch for my numbers, or list to my strains;
Thy manual signet refuses to put
To the airs I produce from the pen or the gut.
Be thou then propitious, great Phoebus! and grant
Relief, or reward, to my merit, or want.
Though the Dean and Delany transcendently shine,
O brighten one solo or sonnet of mine!
With them I’m content thou shouldst make thy abode;
But visit thy servant in jig or in ode;
Make one work immortal: ’tis all I request.”
Apollo look’d pleased; and, resolving to jest,
Replied, “Honest friend, I’ve consider’d thy case;
Nor dislike thy well-meaning and humorous face.
Thy petition I grant: the boon is not great;
Thy works shall continue; and here’s the receipt.
On rondeaus hereafter thy fiddle-strings spend:
Write verses in circles: they never shall end.”