Presumptuous Bard, forbear! — thy boldness check Nor seek to snatch the veil from LAURA'S neck; Not one poor thread the Loves to thee will spare, For beaux with wigs have little business there: See, too, where JOVE the precious boon denies, Elysium was not made for mortal eyes— Then, hapless man, the fond idea fly, Thy pray'rs are vain, thy wish the Gods deny; For tho' stern Fate ordain, be ground it must, And the rack'd muslin shall return to dust, By guardian spirits, still preserv'd from thee, And chang'd its shape, it yet shall LAURA'S be, When the fam'd web shall thoughts as soft reveal, As the lov'd beauties, it could once conceal.—
