Classic Poem

Fair Nymph, that I love you, and long for your Love,
Is what I have often endeavour'd to prove;
That you are unkind, and that I live in Pain,
Have also been mention'd again and again;
Without my repeating these Things in this Place,
Permit me now fairly to reason the Case.

First then, as to Merit, the Thing you pursue,
So needfull in all, so conspicuous in you,
I shall not determine how much I possess;
But, Madam, you may have a Man that has less;
I speak what I think, am what I appear,
And is there no Merit in being Sincere?

Your Charms, 'tis confest, might engage an Atonis ,
But tell me, dear Madam, where that Phaenix One is?
Or grant you could find, were you sure of your Swain?
Bright Venus , you know, went a courting in vain
As Englishmen run, you can have small Objection;
Tho' far be it from me to think of Perfection!

My Fortune, 'tis granted — — But why should I mention
What ought not to biass a Lover's Intention?
Mars put off his Trophies to visit his Goddess,
And Painters hold she had not one Pair of Boddice:
The Value of Money lies all in Opinion;
Love only is current in Cupid 's Dominion.

To sum up the Matter — Whate'er I inherit,
A Soul that is gratefull can never want Merit —
Your Fancy has Power my Person to mould;
And Riches consist not in Silver and Gold;
So pity my Passion, I humbly beseech,
That I may be gratefull, and handsome, and Rich!