Book iii.

But all is in his hand, whose praise I seek. In vain the poet sings, and the world hears, If he regard not, though divine the theme. 'Tis not in artful measures, in the chime And idle tinkling of a minstrel's lyre, To charm his ear whose eye is on the heart, Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain, Whose approbation prosper--even mine.