Classic Poem

O Phoceus, think it no disgrace
To love your maid, since Thetis' heir,
Tho' proud, of old was in your case,
Briseis was so fair.
— The slave Tecmessa at her feet
Saw her lord Ajax — Atreus' son
Lov'd his fair captive in the heat
Of conquest, that he won,
When, beat by that Thessalian boy,
The Phrygian host was disarray'd,
And Hector's death the fall of Troy
An easy purchase made.
Who knows what wealth thou hast to claim?
Rich parents may thy Phyllis grace,
Surely the Gods have been to blame
To one of royal race.
You cannot think her meanly born,
Nor worthless cou'd her mother be,
Whose heart has such ingenuous scorn
For wealth, and love for thee.
Her face, her limbs so form'd t'engage,
I praise with a safe conscience still —
Shun to suspect a man, whose age
Is going down the hill.