Sing swift hoof'd Æthon to thy matchless self,
And be not silent in this pleasant spring;
I am thy echo, and thy airy elf,
The latter strains of thy sweet tunes I'll sing.
Ah, shall thy Muse no further fruits forth bring,
But " Basia " bare? and wilt thou write no more
To higher notes? I pray thee tune thy string!
Be still admired as thou hast been of yore.
Write Æthon, write, let not thy vein decay,
Least we become Cymmerians dark, or worse;
If Æthon fail, the sun his course must stay,
For Phaebus' chariot takes the chiefest horse —
Though fortune frown, ah, why should virtue die?
Sing, Æthon, sing, and I shall echo thee.