When, in your language, I, unskill'd, address
The feeble efforts of a trammel'd muse,
Soft Italy 's fair critics round me press,
And my mistaking passion, thus, accuse.

Why, to our tongue's disgrace, does thy bold love,
Strive, in rough sounds, soft softness to impart:
He must select his words, who speaks, to move ,
And points his meanings, at the hearer's heart.
Then, laughing, they repeat my languid lays ,
Nymphs , of thy native clime, perhaps, they cry,
For whom thou hast a tongue, may feel thy praise,
But we must understand, e're we comply.

Do thou , my soul's soft hope! these triflers awe,
Tell 'em, that it imports not, what I writ,
Since love , from silent looks , can language draw,
And scorns the lame impertinence of wit .