Classic Poem

Why these lethargic fits,
Have wrought upon my wits,
And in oblivion sunk each sense;
As I had drank too deep
Of Lethe, bringing sleep
With greediness of thirst intense.
Maecenas, candid knight,
Your questions kill me quite; —
The God of love has un-bespoke
The strains I promis'd you,
Nor may I them review,
Nor give the master's final stroke.
You too are all aflame,
And by as bright a dame
As fir'd the tow'rs of Troy — rejoice —
Me Phryne, just made free,
Wounds; tho' for more than me,
She gives her person and her voice.