If he, who first the Apple sung, " the fruit
Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste
Brought death into the world and all our woe,"
Unfading laurels won; a branch awaits,
P HILIPS , thy youthful brow, who Apples sung
Innocuous, and with freedom bad us quaff
Their generous nectar 'neath their parent shade
Adventrous, nor in less inferior strains.
Like Milton too, you taught Britannia's song
To shake the shackles off of tinkling rhyme
Emasculate, unnervous, female verse.
Since modesty (still modesty attends
On worth like thine) forbids thee to accept
The parted wreath; let Milton's be the first
Unrivall'd, be the second honours thine.
And now (for Leo from his flaming mane
Shakes sultry rays intense, provoking thirst)
O P HILIPS ! while my well-glaz'd tube exhales
Nicotian fragrance, and my rummer shines
With Cider sparkling high, partake my shade,
Pleas'd with Pomona's haunts and cool recess,
Her purple-breathing births sweet smiling round.