Classic Poem

Lyce, the gods my vows have heard,
At length they've heard my vows;
You wou'd be beauteous with a beard,
You romp and you carouse:
And drunk, with trembling voice, you court
Slow Cupid, prone to seek
For better music, bloom, and sport,
In buxom Chia's cheek.
For he, a sauce-box, scorns dry chips,
And teeth decay'd and green;
Where wrinkled forehead, and chapt lips,
And snowy hairs are seen.
Nor Coan elegance, nor gems,
Your past years will restore;
Which time to his records condemns,
With fleeting wings of yore.
Ah! where's that form, complexion, grace,
That air — where is she, say,
That cou'd my sick'ning soul solace,
And stole my heart away?
Blest! who cou'd Cynara succeed,
As artful and as fair —
But fate, to Cynara, decreed
Few summers for her share,
That crow-like Lyce might survive,
'Till lads shou'd laugh and shout,
To see the torch, but just alive,
So slowly stinking out.