"Lovely courier of the sky, Whence and whither dost thou fly? Scatt'ring, as thy pinions play, Liquid fragrance all the way. Is it business? is it love? Tell me, tell me, gentle Dove. 'Soft Anacreon's vows I bear, Vows to Myrtale the fair; Graced with all that charms the heart, Blushing nature, smiling art. Venus, courted by an ode, On the bard her Dove bestowed. Vested with a master's right Now Anacreon rules my flight; His the letters that you see, Weighty charge consigned to me; Think not yet my service hard, Joyless task without reward; Smiling at my master's gates, Freedom my return awaits. But the liberal grant in vain Tempts me to be wild again. Can a prudent Dove decline Blissful bondage such as mine? Over hills and fields to roam, Fortune's guest without a home; Under leaves to hide one's head, Slightly sheltered, coarsely fed; Now my better lot bestows Sweet repast, and soft repose; Now the generous bowl I sip As it leaves Anacreon's lip; Void of care, and free from dread, From his fingers snatch his bread, Then with luscious plenty gay, Round his chamber dance and play; Or from wine, as courage springs, O'er his face extend my wings; And when feast and frolic tire, Drop asleep upon his lyre. This is all, be quick and go, More than all thou canst not know; Let me now my pinions ply, I have chattered like a pie.'" When I had finished, "But you must remember to add," says Mr. Johnson, "that though these verses were planned, and even begun, when I was sixteen years old, I never could find time to make an end of them before I was sixty-eight."