Classic Poem

Whilst my growing flame you nourish'd,
Spotless of a rival's touch,
Clasp'd within your arms I flourish'd,
Not the Persian king so much. LY.
Ere you languish'd for another,
And with Chloe was inflam'd,
Lydia, greater than the mother
Of the Roman race was nam'd. HO.
Me indeed that Thracian beauty,
Sweet musician, holds her slave;
For whose life I deem it duty
Death, ev'n death itself to brave. LY.
Me my Calais with such ardour
Courts and kisses — him to spare —
Death, or was there aught still harder,
I ten thousand times would bear. HO.
What if our old flame recover,
And our hearts again subdue,
While the portal of your lover,
Shut to Chloe, opes to you? LY.
Tho' he be as bright as brightness,
Thou with cork, or with the sea,
Well compar'd for wrath and lightness,
I could live and die with thee.