Classic Poem

For that is dangerous for a Man to be
Too busy with immutable Decree,
I cou'd, Dear Friend, e'en blame thy cruel Doom,
That lent so much, to be requir'd so soon:
The Flowers, in which the Meads are deck'd so gay:
Altho' they are short-liv'd, they live a Day;
Thou in the Noon of Life wer't snatch'd away.
Tho' not before thy Verse had Wonders shown,
And bravely made the Age to come thy own.
The Company of Beauty, Wealth, and Wine,
Were not so charming, not so sweet as thine.
They quickly perish, yours was still the same,
An everlasting, but a lambent Flame,
Which something so resistless did impart
It still through ev'ry Ear, won ev'ry Heart.
Unlike the Wretch, who strives to get Esteem,
Nay, thinks it fine, and jantee to blaspheme,
And can be witty on no other Theme,
Ah! Foolish Man! (whom thou did'st still despise)
That must be wicked to be counted wise:
But thy Converse was from this Error free;
And yet 'twas every Thing true Wit cou'd be:
None had it, but ev'n with a Tear does own
The Soul of Dear Society is gone.
But while we thus thy Native Sweetness sing,
We ought not to forget thy Native Sting;
Thy Satyr spar'd no Follies, nor no Crimes,
Satyr the best Reformer of the Times!
While diff'rent Priests eternally contest,
And each will have his own Religion best,
And in a Holy Huff damns all the rest.
Their Love to Gain, not Godliness, is shown:
Heav'ns Work they leave undone, to do their own.
How wide shoot they that strive to blast thy Fame,
By saying that thy Verse was rough and lame?
They wou'd have Satyr their Compassion move,
And write so pliant nicely, and so smooth,
As if the Muse were in a Flux of Love.
But who of Knaves, and Fops and Fools does sing
Must Force, and Fire, and Indignation bring,
For 'tis no Satyr, if it has no Sting.
In short, who in that Field wou'd famous be,
Must think, and write like Juvenal and thee:
Let others boast of all the mighty Nine,
To make their Labours with more Lustre shine,
I never had no other Muse but Thee:
Ev'n thou wert all the mighty Nine to Me;
'Twas thy Dear Friendship did my Breast inspire,
And warm'd it first with a Poetick Fire:
But 'tis a warmth that does with thee expire.
For when the Sun is set, that guides the Day,
The Traveller must stop, or lose his Way.