But now their frantic rage unbounded grows, Turns all to madness, and no measure knows: Yet this the charms of music might subdue; But that, with all its charms, is conquer’d too: In louder strains their hideous yellings rise, And squeaking hornpipes echo through the skies, Which, in hoarse concert with the drum, confound The moving lyre, and every gentle sound: Then ’twas the deafen’d stones flew on with speed, And saw, unsoothed, their tuneful poet bleed. The birds, the beasts, and all the savage crew Which the sweet lyrist to attention drew, Now by the female mob’s more furious rage Are driven, and forced to quit the shady stage. Next their fierce hands the bard himself assail, Nor can his song against their wrath prevail: They flock like birds, when, in a clustering flight, By day they chase the boding fowl of night: So crowded amphitheatres survey The stag, to greedy dogs a future prey. Their steely javelins, which soft curls entwine Of budding tendrils from the leafy vine, For sacred rites of mild religion made, Are flung promiscuous at the poet’s head.