To a Lady, Who Lamented She Could Not Sing

'Oh! give to LYDIA, ye blest Pow'rs,' I cried, 'A voice!' the only gift ye have denied.— 'A voice!' says VENUS, with a laughing air, 'A voice! strange object of a Lover's pray'r! 'Say—shall your chosen Fair resemble most 'Yon Philomel, whose voice is all her boast? 'Or, curtain'd round with leaves, yon mournful Dove, 'That hoarsely murmurs to the conscious grove?' —'Still more unlike,' I said, 'be LYDIA'S note 'The pleasing tone of Philomela's throat, 'So to the hoarseness of the murm'ring Dove 'She joins ('tis all I ask) the Turtle's love.'