Classic Poem

I.

With your Discretion, you seem Mad;
To lose at once your Pleasure, Time, and Fame,
For Pleasure, which we never had;
For Love, to suffer still more Pain, and Shame;
To be, but for your Virtue, more to blame.
II.

To suffer Pain, to give it me;
Disgrace, which thou wou'dst fain escape, to bear;
To make the World to censure thee,
And think, you but so proud and scornful are;
But that your Love to me, may not appear.

III.

Your Credit lose, to save it then;
Who have your Fame, the Price of Pleasure, paid;
To Please your Sex, Displease the Men;
But for what Cause, shou'd you be vainly made,
More of your Foe's Scorn, than your Friends afraid?

IV.

Give me your Love, I brib'd shall be,
Fame of your Beauty, Virtue to defend;
But if you will not lie with me,
To be thy false Foe, I'll seem thy true Friend;
Thee, more to thy Dishonour, will commend.

V.

But if with me thou wou't but lie,
I will more kindly speak more Ill of thee,
Thy Fame, by Scandal, justifie;
Which but more ruin'd, by my Praise wou'd be;
So, but to keep thy Credit, lie with me.

VI.

Since of her, who for me does ill,
I well, but more ungratefully, shou'd speak,
Who speak best of Ill Women still,
Whose good Word, good Fame, from the Good wou'd take;
I speak ill of 'em, for their Honour's sake.

VII.

Thee then I kindly discommend,
Since, shou'd the prating World which knows me, know,
That I were thy peculiar Friend,
My Praise of you, wou'd your Dishonour grow;
I love you so well, I speak ill of you.