You, the choice minions of the proud-lipped nine 
Who warble at the great Apollo's knee, 
Why do you laugh at these rude lays of mine? 
I seek not of your brotherhood to be: 
I do not play the public swan, nor try 
To curve my proud neck on your vocal streams. 
In my own little isle retreated, I 
Lost myself in my waters and my dreams: 
Forgetful of the world, forgotten too, 
The cygnet of my own secluded wave 
I sing, whilst dashing up their silver dew 
For joy, the petty billows try to rave: 
There is a still applause in solitude, 
Fitting alike my merits and my mood.