Classic Poem

The lasses late I wooed, a favoured swain,
And with some credit served in Cupid's ranks.
Now on this wall in sea-born Venus' fane,
That to the left her statue flanks,

My lyre, its warfare ended, shall repose,
And all my arms. Here, boys, lay down my store
Of torches bright, my crowbars, and my bows,
Tools for the siege of bolted door.

O goddess queen, whose happy rule obey
Cyprus, and Memphis free from Thracian snow,
Lift high thy lash, and one smart touch, I pray,
On Chloe, scornful maid, bestow.