But if, my ſoul, with fond deſire ⁠5

To ſing of games thou doſt aſpire,
As thou by day can'ſt not deſcry,
Through all the liquid waſte of sky,
One burniſh'd ſtar, that like the ſun does glow,
And cheriſh every thing below, ⁠10
So, my ſweet ſoul, no toil divine,
In ſong, does like the Olympian ſhine:
Hence do the mighty poets raiſe
A hymn, of every tongue the praiſe,
The ſon of Saturn to reſound, ⁠15
When far, from every land, they come
To viſit Hiero's regal dome,
Where peace, where plenty, is for ever found:

Lord of Sicilia's fleecy plains,
He governs, righteous in his power, ⁠20
And, all excelling while he reigns,
From every lovely virtue crops the flower:
In muſick, bloſſom of delight,
Divinely skill'd, he cheers the night,
As we are wont, when friends deſign ⁠25

To feaſt and wanton o'er their wine: