The age was destined to be saved by music.

License was its only liberty, as the _Adone_ taught.

Unmusical Chiabrera, buckram'd up by old mythologies and sterling precepts, left its life untouched.

His antique virtues stood, like stucco gods and goddesses, on pedestals in garden groves, and moldered.

His Pindaric flights were such as a sparrow, gazing upward at a hawk, might venture on.