To His Lute

If ever in the sylvan shade A song immortal we have made, Come now, O lute, I pri' thee come— Inspire a song of Latium. A Lesbian first thy glories proved— In arms and in repose he loved To sweep thy dulcet strings and raise His voice in Love's and Liber's praise; The Muses, too, and him who clings To Mother Venus' apron-strings, And Lycus beautiful, he sung In those old days when you were young. O shell, that art the ornament Of Phoebus, bringing sweet content To Jove, and soothing troubles all— Come and requite me, when I call!