Classic Poem

Y OU'VE seen a pair of faithful lovers die:
And much you care, for most of you will cry,
'T was a just judgment on their constancy.
For, Heav'n be thank'd, we live in such an age,
When no man dies for love, but on the stage:
And ev'n those martyrs are but rare in plays;
A cursed sign how much true faith decays.
Love is no more a violent desire;
'T is a mere metaphor, a painted fire.
In all our sex, the name, examin'd well,
Is pride to gain, and vanity to tell.
In woman, 't is of subtile int'rest made:
Curse on the punk that made it first a trade!
She first did wit's prerogative remove,
And made a fool presume to prate of love.
Let honor and preferment go for gold,
But glorious beauty is not to be sold:
Or, if it be, 't is at a rate so high,
That nothing but adoring it should buy.
Yet the rich cullies may their boasting spare;
They purchase but sophisticated ware.
'T is prodigality that buys deceit,
Where both the giver and the taker cheat.
Men but refine on the old half-crown way;
And women fight, like Swizzers, for their pay.