Classic Poem

My Prayers are heard, O Lyce , now
They're heard; years write thee Ag'd, yet thou
Youthfull and green in Will,
Putt'st in for handsome still,
And shameless dost intrude among
The Sports and feastings of the young.

There, thaw'd with Wine, thy ragged throat
To Cupid shakes some feeble Note,
To move unwilling fires,
And rouze our lodg'd desires,
When he still wakes in Chia 's face,
Chia , that's fresh, and sings with Grace.

For he (choice God) doth, in his flight,
Skip Sapless Oaks, and will not light
Upon thy Cheek, or Brow,
Because deep wrinkles now,
Gray Hairs, and Teeth decayed and worn,
Present thee fowl, and fit for Scorn.

Neither thy Coan Purples lay,
Nor that thy Jewels native day
Can make thee backwards live,
And those lost years retrive
Which Winged Time unto our known
And Publike Annals once hath thrown.

Whither is now that Softness flown?
Whither that Blush, that Motion gone?
Alas what now in thee
Is left of all that She,
That She that loves did breath and deal?
That Horace from himself did steal?

Thou wert a while the cry'd-up Face,
Of taking Arts, and catching Grace,
My Cynara being dead;
But my fair Cynara 's thread
Fates broke, intending thine to draw
Till thou contest with th' Aged Daw.

That those young Lovers, once thy Prey,
Thy zealous eager Servants, may
Make thee their Common sport,
And to thy house resort
To see a Torch that proudly burn'd
Now into Colder Ashes turn'd.