Classic Poem

Conquer'd with soft and pleasing Charms,
And never-failing Vows of her Return,
Winter unlocks his frosty Arms
To free the joyful Spring;
Which for fresh Loves with youthful Heat does burn;
Warm South-Winds court her, and with fruitful Showers
Awake the drowsie Flowers
Who haste and all their Sweetness bring
To pay their yearly offering.
No nipping White is seen,
But all the Fields are clad in pleasant Green,
And only fragrant Dews now fall;
The Ox forsakes his once warm Stall
To bask i' th' Sun's much warmer Beams;
The Ploughman leaves his Fire and his Sleep,
Well pleased to whistle to his labouring Teams;
Whilst the glad Shepherd pipes to 's frisking Sheep.
Nay, tempted by the smiling sky
Wreckt Merchants quit the Shore;
Resolving once again to try
The Wind and Sea's Almighty Power;
Chusing much rather to be Dead than Poor.
Upon the flowery Plains,
Or under shady Trees,
The Shepherdesses and their Swains
Dance to their rural Harmonies;
Then steal in private to their covert Groves,
There finish their well-heightened Loves.
The City Dame takes this Pretence
(Weary of Husband and of Innocence)
To quit the Smoke and Business of the Town,
And to her Country-House retires,
Where she may bribe and grasp some Country Clown,
Or her appointed Gallant come
To feed her loose Desires;
Whilst the poor Cuckold by his Sweat at home
Maintains her Lust and Pride;
Blest as he thinks with such a beauteous Bride.
Since all the World 's thus gay and free,
Why should not we?
Let 's then accept our Mother Nature's Treat
And please ourselves with all that 's sweet;
Let 's to the shady Bowers,
Where, Crowned with gaudy Flowers,
We 'll drink and laugh away the gliding Hours.
Trust me, Thyrsis, the grim Conqueror Death
With the same freedom snatches a King's Breath,
He hurtles the poor fettered Slave
To 's unknown Grave.
Though we each Day with Cost repair,
He mocks our greatest Skill and utmost Care;
Nor loves the Fair, nor fears the Strong,
And he that lives the longest dies but young;
And once deprived of Light,
We 're wrapt in mists of endless night.
Once come to those dark cells, of which we 're told
So many strange romantick Tales of old
(In things unknown Invention 's justly bold),
No more shall Mirth and Wine
Our Loves and Wit refine.
No more shall you your Phyllis have,
Phyllis so long you 've prized;
Nay she too in the Grave
Shall lye like us despised.