Classic Poem

Friend of the muses, fear and pain
I throw into the Cretan main,
To be the sport of ruffian tempests there —
Who the cold north shall sway is far beneath my care.
I in peculiar unconcern
Profess myself, whatever turn
The great affairs of Tiridates take,
And all th'alarming dread, that keep his thoughts awake.
O muse of the Pimplean hill,
That lov'st to taste the genuine rill,
Weave me those flow'rs that brightest beams receive,
Yea elegance and fragrance for my Lamia weave.
Without that influence of thine,
Vain are the honours I design,
Thou and thy graceful sisters ought to smile,
To him devote new strains, and in the Lesbian style.