Classic Poem

Thy Riches use, as hastening to the Grave,
And as of Life secure, thy Riches save.
So are the wise prepar'd to die or live,
That Life may keep, and Death may riches give.

Love is my wound; the tear is blood,
That bathes my fault with endless flood;
Oppressive sighs my bosom heave,
Nor can Machaon's art relieve.
O were I Telephus to thee,
Faithful Achilles thou to me,
Then should a smile thy victim save,
And Beauty heal the wound it gave!