The Powers of the Pen A poem addressed to John Curre ... By E. Lloyd ... The second edition, with large additions |
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 | The Powers of the Pen |  |
Tho' Phœbus' Self the Numbers sung,
He could not charm their sland'rous Tongue;
And tho' thy Song as his was pure,
Thy Honour were not then secure;
For they with Fingers rude wou'd tear
The wreathed Chaplet from thy Hair,
And, urg'd by Envy's stern Command,
Wou'd break the Lyre that grac'd thy Hand.
He could not charm their sland'rous Tongue;
And tho' thy Song as his was pure,
Thy Honour were not then secure;
For they with Fingers rude wou'd tear
The wreathed Chaplet from thy Hair,
And, urg'd by Envy's stern Command,
Wou'd break the Lyre that grac'd thy Hand.
| The Powers of the Pen | |