Classic Poem

When Cloe 's Charms I warmly sing,
Such Wit she never can reward:
But could she influence the King,
I should, at least, be made a Lord.

That those who write immortal Rhimes,
Should want the Means of mortal Life;
Against the base, degenerate Times,
She finds perpetual Cause of Strife.

So much transported with my Muse,
Her Praise is all she lets me have:
For, while the deathless Bard she views,
She never sees her dying Slave.

Cloe , forbear this high Esteem;
Or form a more familiar Plan — —
A Demigod why should he seem,
Who seeks to prove himself a Man?