Yet even in these days so far retir'd

From happy pieties, thy lucent fans,

Fluttering among the faint Olympians,

I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspir'd.

So let me be thy choir, and make a moan

Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet

Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat

Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.