But, alas! th' amusive reed
Ill suits the lyre that asks a master's hand,
And fond fancies vainly feed
A breast that life's more active scenes demand.
Sloth ignoble to disclaim
'Tis enough: the lyre unstring.
At other feet the victor palm I fling
In Granta's glorious shrine;
Where crown'd with radiance divine
Her smiles shall nurse the Muse; the Muse shall list her fame.