Classic Poem

O Pettius, I delight no more
To scribble verses, as of yore,
With am'rous pains enslav'd;
This third December now has stole
The leaves from Sylvan, since my soul
For fair Inachia rav'd.
Ah me! for I'm asham'd of that,
How much I've fill'd the common chat,
And for their feasts I grieve;
Where listlessness and silence spoke
The lover, and such sighs I broke,
As I cou'd hardly heave.
And oft to you I wou'd complain,
How the poor man's ingenious vein,
With fortune had no share;
Soon as the frontless God of wine,
Had wrought upon this breast of mine,
To lay its secrets bare.
But if a manly form prevail,
To give these love-tricks to the gale,
Which fan, not sooth the flame;
Then that false shame shall be a jest,
Of coming off the second best,
With men of greater name.
When thus pot-valiant and austere,
This speech I cited in your ear —
Advis'd to clear the coast,
I stagger'd homewards, to attack
My fair-one's door, and broke my back
And ribs against the post.