Classic Poem

I own, my Friend, Olivia is not fair,
An aukard Creature with a slattern Air;
She's Nature's Error, I confess indeed,
What then? the Sick alone the Doctor need:
Thus cunning Tradesmen praise their paltry Ware,
And cry, the very best in all the Fair;
But let the Diamonds sparkle into Fame,
And each Spectator with their Worth inflame.

When Fancy's in her Infancy, the Muse
Some trivial Theme, in trifling Lays, pursues,
Till, by Degrees, she takes a loftier Aim
And crowns her Actions with immortal Fame.

Thus the keen Sword that's bath'd in Heroes Blood,
First, to be temper'd, drinks the filthy Flood.