Classic Poem

To brawl and quarrel over wine
And, drugged with dissipation,
To strike in anger, and decline
The toast is rude, is base,—in fine,
It's downright Thracian.
Let songs uncurl the scornful lip;
Let verses, light or classic,
Regale the board; let dancers trip …
Here, try these peacock's tongues, and sip
This rare old Massic.
Come, toast the one that rules your heart;
A truce to idle lying.
Blessed are the wounds that ache and smart
When some fair Chloë speeds the dart
Of which you're dying.
Who needs excuse his love or make
Apologies for passion?
The heavy bonds that none can break
I weave in pleasing chains; so take
Yours in this fashion.
Come then, her name. What! Is it she ? …
Alas, my lad, I fear a
Fate will be yours none dare foresee.
What god can save you, set you free
From this chimera!