Classic Poem

Ille ego qui quondam gracili modulatus avena Arma virumque cano

I, he who sung of humble Oates before,
Now sing a captain and a man of war.

Goddess of rhyme, that didst inspire
The captain with poetic fire,
Adding fresh laurels to that brow
Where those of victory did grow,
And statelier ornaments may flourish now;
If thou art well recovered since
The Excommunicated Prince
(For that important tragedy
Would have killed any muse but thee)
Hither with speed, O! hither move,
Pull buskins off, and since to love
The ground is holy that you tread in,
Dance barefoot at the captain's wedding.

See where he comes, and by his side
His charming fair angelic bride:
Such, or less lovely, was the dame
So much renowned, Fulvia by name,
With whom of old Tully did join
Then when his art did undermine
The horrid Popish Plot of Catiline.
O fairest nymph of all Great Britain
(Though thee my eyes I never set on)
Blush not on thy great lord to smile,
The second savior of our isle;
What nobler captain could have led
Thee to thy longed-for marriage bed?
For know that thy all-daring Will is
As stout a hero as Achilles;
And as great things for thee has done
As Palmerin or th' Knight of th' Sun,
And is himself a whole romance alone.
Let conscious Flanders speak and be
The witness of his chivalry.
Yet that's not all, his very word
Has slain as many as his sword:
Though common bullies with their oaths
Hurt little till they come to blows,
Yet all his mouth-granados kill,
And save the pains of drawing steel.
This hero thy resistless charms
Have won to fly into thy arms;
For think not any mean design,
Or the inglorious itch of coin,
Could ever have his breast controlled,
Or make him be a slave to gold:
His love's as freely giv'n to thee
As to the king his loyalty.
Then, O, receive thy mighty prize
With open arms and wishing eyes,
Kiss that dear face where may be seen
His worth and parts that skulk within,
That face that justly styled may be
As true a discoverer as he.
Think not he ever false will prove,
His well known truth secures his love;
Do you a while divert his cares
From his important grand affairs:
Let him have respite now a while
From kindling the mad rabble's zeal.
Zeal that is hot as fire, yet dark and blind,
Shows plainly where its birthplace we may find:
In Hell, where though dire flames forever glow,
Yet 'tis the place of utter darkness too.
But to his bed be sure be true
As he to all the world and you;
He all your plots will else betray,
All ye she-Machiavels can lay.
He all designs you know has found,
Though hatched in Hell, or under ground;
Oft to the world such secrets shew
As scarce the plotters themselves knew;
Yet if by chance you hap to sin,
And love, while, honor's napping, should creep in,
Yet be discreet, and do not boast
O'th' treason by the common post.
So shalt thou still make him love on:
All virtue's in discretion.
So thou with him shalt shine, and be
As great a patriot as he;
And when, as now in Christmas, all
For a new pack of cards do call,
Another popish pack comes out
To please the cits and charm the rout,
Thou, mighty queen, shalt a whole suit command,
A crown upon thy head, and scepter in thy hand.