Classic Poem

I charge thee, Lydia, tell me straight,
Why Sybaris destroy,
Why make love do the deeds of hate,
And to his end precipitate
The dear enamour'd boy?
Why can he not the field abide,
From sun and dust recede,
Nor with his friends, in gallant pride,
Dress'd in his regimentals, ride,
And curb the manag'd steed?
Why does he now to bathe disdain,
And fear the sandy flood?
Why from th'athletic oil refrain,
As if its use would be his bane,
As sure as viper's blood?
No more his shoulders black and blue
By wearing arms appear;
He, who the quoit so dextrous threw,
And from whose hand the jav'lin flew
Beyond a rival's spear;
Why does he skulk, as authors say
Of Thetis' fav'rite heir,
Lest a man's habit should betray,
And force him to his troops away,
The work of death to share?