Ye Muses, Graces, Virtues, heaven-born maids!
Who love in peaceful solitude to dwell
With meek-ey'd Innocence, and radiant Truth,
And blushing Modesty; that frighted fly
The dark intrigue, and midnight masquerade;
What is this pleasure which inchants mankind?
'Tis noise, 'tis toil, 'tis frenzy: like the cup
Of Circe, fam'd of old, who tastes it finds
Th' etherial spark divine to brute transform'd.