Classic Poem

Madam,
If you're deceived, it is not by my cheat,
For all disguises are below the great.
What man or woman upon earth can say
I ever used 'em well above a day?
How is it, then, that I inconstant am?
He changes not who always is the same.
In my dear self I center ev'rything—
My servants, friends, my mistress, and my king;
Nay, heav'n and earth to that one point I bring.
Well-mannered, honest, generous, and stout
(Names by dull fools, to plague mankind, found out)
Should I regard, I must myself constrain,
And 'tis my maxim to avoid all pain.
You fondly look for what none e'er could find,
Deceive yourself, and then call me unkind,
And by false reasons would my falsehood prove,
For 'tis as natural to change as love.
You may as justly at the sun repine,
Because alike it does not always shine.
No glorious thing was ever made to stay:
My blazing star but visits and away.
As fatal, too, it shines as those i'th' skies:
'Tis never seen but some great lady dies.
The boasted favor you so precious hold
To me's no more than changing of my gold.
Whate'er you gave I paid you back in bliss;
Then where's the obligation, pray, of this?
If, heretofore, you found grace in my eyes,
Be thankful for it and let that suffice.
But women, beggar-like, still haunt the door
Where they've received a charity before.
Oh happy sultan, whom we barb'rous call,
How much refined art thou above us all!
Who envies not the joys of thy serail?
Thee, like some god, the trembling crowd adore:
Each man's thy slave and womankind thy whore.
Methinks I see thee underneath the shade
Of golden canopy, supinely laid,
Thy crowding slaves all silent as the night,
But, at thy nod, all active as the light.
Secure in solid sloth thou there dost reign,
And feel'st the joys of love without the pain.
Each female courts thee with a wishing eye,
While thou with awful pride walk'st careless by,
Till thy kind pledge, at last, marks out the dame
Thou fanci'st most, to quench thy present flame.
Then from thy bed submissive she retires,
And thankful for the grace no more requires.
No loud reproach nor fond unwelcome sound
Of women's tongues thy sacred ear dares wound.
If any do, a nimble mute straight ties
The true-love's-knot and stops her foolish cries.
Thou fear'st no injured kinsman's threat'ning blade,
Nor midnight ambushes by rivals laid,
While here with aching hearts our joys we taste,
Disturbed by swords, like Damocles's feast.