G. EBBARE.

Cease to bid me not to sing. Spite of Fate I'll tune my lyre: Hither, god of music, bring Food to feed the gentle fire; And on Paegasean wing Mount my soul enraptur'd higher.

Some there are who'd curb the mind, And would blast the springing bays; All essays are vain, they'll find, Nought shall drown the muse's lays, Nought shall curb a free-born mind, Nought shall damp Apollo's praise.