Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonsons learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancys child, Warble his native wood-notes wild.
And ever against eating cares Lap me in soft Lydian airs, Married to immortal verse,1 Such as the meeting soul may pierce, In notes with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out.