Classic Poem

What is't, fine Grand, makes thee my friendship fly,
Or take an epigram so fearfully:
As 'twere a challenge, or a borrower's letter?
The world must know your greatness is my debtor.
In primis, Grand, you owe me for a jest,
I lent you, on mere acquaintance, at a feast.
Item, a tale or two, some fortnight after;
That yet maintains you, and your house in laughter.
Item, the Babylonian song you sing;
Item, a fair Greek posy for a ring:
With which a learnèd madam you belie.
Item, a charm surrounding fearfully,
Your partie per pale picture, one half drawn
In solemn cypress, the other cobweb lawn.
Item, a gulling imprese for you, at tilt.
Item, your mistress' anagram, in your hilt.
Item, your own, sewed in your mistress' smock.
Item, an epitaph on my lord's cock,
In most vile verses, and cost me more pain,
Than had I made them good, to fit your vein.
Forty things more, dear Grand, which you know true,
For which, or pay me quickly, or I'll pay you.