Classic Poem

Say what slim youth, with moist perfumes
Bedaub'd, now courts thy fond embrace,
There, where the frequent rose-tree blooms,
And makes the grot so sweet a place?
Pyrrha, for whom with such an air
Do you bind back your golden hair?

So seeming in your cleanly vest,
Whose plainness is the pink of taste —
Alas! how oft shall he protest
Against his confidence misplac't,
And love's inconstant pow'rs deplore,
And wondrous winds, which, as they roar,

Throw black upon the alter'd scene —
Who now so well himself deceives,
And thee all sunshine, all serene
For want of better skill believes,
And for his pleasure has presag'd
Thee ever dear and disengag'd.

Wretched are all within thy snares,
The inexperienc'd and the young!
For me the temple witness bears
Where I my dropping weeds have hung,
And left my votive chart behind
To him that rules both wave and wind.