Soliloquy of a Bard in the Country

'Twas now the noon of night, and all was still, Except a hapless Rhymer and his quill. In vain he calls each Muse in order down, Like other females, these will sometimes frown; He frets, be fumes, and ceasing to invoke The Nine, in anguish'd accents thus he spoke: Ah what avails it thus to waste my time, To roll in Epic, or to rave in Rhyme?…