Classic Poem

Is there a hope, that man would thankful be,
If I should fail, in gratitude, to thee
To whom I am so bound, loved Aubigny?
No, I do, therefore, call posterity
Into the debt; and reckon on her head,
How full of want, how swallowed up, how dead
I, and this muse had been, if thou hadst not
Lent timely succours, and new life begot:
So, all reward, or name, that grows to me
By her attempt, shall still be owing thee.
And, than this same, I know no abler way
To thank thy benefits: which is, to pay.