Whither away, now, GEORGE[1], into the city,
And to the village, must thou bear my ditty.
Seek NYKY out, while I in verse complain,
And court the Muse to call him back again.
Boeotian Nymphs, my favorite verse inspire;
As erst ye NYKY taught to strike the lyre.
For he like PHOEBUS' self can touch the string,
And opera-songs compose--like any thing!
What shall I do, now NYKY's fled away?
For who like him can either sing or say?