Classic Poem

OR, ONCE A LOVER AND ALWAYS A LOVER .

As quiet monarchs, that on peaceful thrones,
In sports and revels, long had reign'd like drones,
Rousing at length, reflect, with guilt and shame,
That not one stroke had yet been giv'n for fame;
Wars they denounce, and, to redeem the past,
To bold attempts and rugged labours haste:
Our poet so, with like concern, reviews
The youthful follies of a love-sick Muse:
To am'rous toils, and to the silent grove,
To Beauty's snares, and to deceitful Love,
He bids farewell; his shield and lance prepares,
And mounts the stage to bid immortal wars.
Vice, like some monster, suff'ring none t' escape,
Has seiz'd the Town, and varies still her shape.
Here, like some general, she struts in state,
While crowds in red and blue her orders wait:
There, like some pensive statesman, treads demure,
And smiles, and hugs, to make destruction sure:
Now under high commodes, with looks erect,
Barefac'd devours, in gaudy colours deck'd;
Then in a vizard, to avoid grimace,
Allows all freedom but to see the face.
In pulpits and at bar she wears a gown,
In camps a sword, in palaces a crown.
Resolv'd to combat with this motley beast,
Our poet comes to strike one stroke at least.
His glass he means not for this jilt or beau,
Some features of you all he means to show;
On chosen heads nor lets the thunder fall,
But scatters his artillery — at all.
Yet to the fair he fain would quarter show;
His tender heart recoils at ev'ry blow:
If unawares he gives too smart a stroke,
He means but to correct, and not provoke.