Classic Poem

As Drones, oppressive Habitants of Hives,
Owe to the Labour of the Bees their Lives,
Whose Work is always with the Day begun,
And never ends but with the seting Sun,
From Flowr to Flowr they rove, and loaded Home
Return, to build the white the waxen Comb,
While lazy the luxurious Race remain
Within, and of their Toils enjoy the Gain;
So Woman, by the Thund'rer's hard Decree,
And wretched Man, are like the Drone and Bee:
If Man the gauling Chain of Wedlock shuns,
He from one Evil to another runs;
He, when his Hairs are winter'd o'er with Grey,
Will want a Helpmate in th' afflicting Day;
And if Possessions large have bless'd his Life,
He dys, and proves perhaps the Source of Strife,
A distant Kindred, far ally'd in Blood,
Contend to make their doubtful Titles good:
Or should he, these Calamitys to fly,
His Honour plight, and join the mutual Ty,
And should the Partner of his Bosom prove
A chast and prudent Matron, worthy Love,
Yet he would find this chast this prudent Wife
The hapless Author of a checquer'd Life:
But should he, wretched Man, a Nymph embrace,
A stubborn Consort, of a stubborn Race,
Poor hamper'd Slave how must he drag the Chain!
His Mind, his Breast, his Heart, o'ercharg'd with Pain!
What congregated Woes must he endure!
What Ills on Ills which will admit no Cure!