That eagle's fate and mine are one, Which, on the shaft that made him die, Espied a feather of his own, Wherewith he wont to soar so high.
So must the writer, whose productions should Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould.
All things but one you can restore; the heart you get returns no more.
Music so softens and disarms the mind That not an arrow does resistance find.
Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, And every conqueror creates a muse.
Give us enough but with a sparing hand.