And I before too fond of lays, While others pant for solid gain, Grasp at a laurel sprigin vain You could not chill with frown severe The madness to my soul so dear; For when Apollo came to store Your mind with salutary lore, The god I ween, was pleas'd to dart A ray from Pindus on your heart; Your willing bosom caught the fire, And still is partial to the lyre.