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I'm conquer'd, and renounce the glorious train
Of arms, and war, to sing of love again:
My themes are acts, which I myself have done,
And my muse sings no battles but my own.
Once I confess I did the drama try,
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And ventur'd with success on tragedy;
My genius with a moving scene agrees,
And if I ventured further I might please:
But love my heroics makes a jest,
And laughs to see me in my buskins drest.
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Asham'd, and weary of this tragic whim,
For tender thoughts I quitted the sublime.
My mind my mistress bends another way,
Her must my muse in all her songs obey;
Though oft I do not what I write approve,
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Like, or not like it, I must sing of love.
Whether for Ithaca's illustrious dame,
To great Ulysses I a letter frame,
Or for Oenone tender things indite,
Or soft complaints for injur'd Phillis write;
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