Classic Poem

And is it thus ordain'd by Jove ,
That Wit should never win the Fair?
Then why are Poets form'd for Love;
Since Love to them is but Despair?

When in their Lines some Beauty charms,
The Rapture swells their Passions high:
Upon themselves recoil their Arms;
And by the Flame they raise, they die.

In vain their melting Notes rehearse
The Anguish of th' ill-fated Youths:
Perhaps the Nymphs approve the Verse,
But disregard the fatal Truths.

Immortal Fame, the Bard's Reward,
Fate has not join'd it with Success:
The Gods will have their Bounty shar'd;
And very rarely doubly bless.

Phaebus and Waller run'd their Lyres;
The Lawrel only crown'd their Art:
Yet One both Life and Love inspires;
And t'other warms the coldest Heart.

And what are Lawrels, what is Fame,
To make us Sacrifice our Rest?
They cannot quench an inward Flame;
They cannot heal a wounded Breast.

What tho' the World admire my Strains;
What tho' Montclia 's self they please:
Her Praises may increase my Chains,
But not contribute to my Ease.

Or be their Value understood,
Or, O ye Gods, your Gifts resume!
Make Fame a more substantial Good,
Or give Montelia in it's room!