Classic Poem

Who, the first Time he had the Houour to see Her,
su a Ballad of Her own Composing, in Compliment
One He had Writ before .

To the Tune of, To all ye Ladies , &c.

I.

Ah! Clio , had thy distant Lays
Attack'd my weakest Side
And thou had only Writ to raise
An empty Poet 's Pride;
With merry Glee , then, all Day long,
Thy Wit and Verse had been my Song

II.

But, to the Lines , which thou had writ,
It was a cruel Choice,
To add new Force , and Grace thy Wit
With Beauty and with Voice .
' it only points , but Lips and Eye
Weather the Darts and make them fly.

III.

Thou should'st thy dawning Muse have sent,
Fore-runner to thy Sun ,
And not have spread the Firmament
At once with Height of Noon ;
To banish Darkness, it was kind,
But, cruel, thus to strike me blind.

IV.

Thy Arrows , from a random Hand,
Might chance to miss their Aim ;
But when you take so near a Stand ,
They cannot fail to maim:
For what Amazement must it bring,
To see thee Look , and hear thee Sing ?

V.

Then kindl'd Skies their Lightnings broach,
At Distance, first, they appear,
To warn us of their fierce Approach,
And for the Storm prepare;
But Flashes , unexpected, fright,
They melt the Soul , and pierce the Sight .

VI.

at you, fair Nymph , no Time allow,
At once you'our Fate proclaim,
And whilst your Beauty makes us glow,
Your Voice inspires the Flame:
But when the Muse assumes her Part,
That Engines can insure the Heart?

VII.

The Delphick God , by Female Tongues,
His Oracles declar'd,
Thro' horrid Looks, from untun'd Lungs,
The Fate of Crowns was heard;
But the whole God in you does meet,
His Youth , his Musick and his Wit .

VIII.

Had Sappho , thus, to Phaon writ,
She had escap'd the Wave ;
The Youth had been, by Force of Wit,
Compell'd the Nymph to save;
But Sappho met her Destiny,
'Cause Sappho could not write like Thee .

IX.

Like Thee , had Eccho tun'd her Voice
Narcissas to invoke,
The Self lov'd Youth had fix'd his Choice,
Nor doom'd her to a Rock :
Thus both a better Fate had found;
She had not Pin'd , nor He been Drown'd .

X.

But, whate'er Fate to me belongs,
This Comfort I shall have,
To be recorded in thy Songs ,
And triumph in the Grave:
Who falls a Victim to thy Eyes,
Is, by thy Verses , sure to rise.

XI.

Thy fragrant Lines salute the Sky,
Like an Arabian Nest,
And, like an aged Phaenix , I
Embalm'd on Spices rest,
Thus, whilst amidst thy Flames , I burn,
I rise immortal from the Vrn .