Classic Poem

My Love and Wit, at once to show,
Verse, without Gold, I send you now;
He can't be, for a Wit allow'd
Who, with his Gold, with which he wou'd
Make his Dame Humble, makes her Proud;
Makes her more Rich, himself more Poor,
To make her scorn his Love yet more;
Then, with our Gold, or Gems, to part,
To gain a Mistress's Proud Heart,
Wou'd our Design on her prevent,
So prove our Wit's Disparagement;
By what we'd make our Dame more sure,
More Rivals in her to procure;
Make her the greater Fortune so,
That more might her Pretenders grow,
Nay, Greater, and more Pow'rful too;
The Rich to think, but for their Coin,
To her, and hers, them theirs to join;
By Gifts to her, for their own sake,
Her, and her Wealth, their own to make;
And Poor Wits, for their Wants, to grow
More bold, to strive to steal her too;
To make to her the fiercer Love,
More Kindness to themselves to prove,
The Rich, by Presents, which they give
Themselves, not Poor Friends, to relieve,
Less Good to do, than to receive;
So selfishly part with their Store,
For their Dame's Love they value more;
Thus Fond, Vain Men, by Presents, which
Make Dames more Proud, but as more Rich;
Their Vanity but more increase,
To make their small Hopes of 'em less,
Whose Pride had been less, their Love more,
Before they were, by their Friend's Store,
Made but more Rich, as they more Poor;
Then Rich Men, who their Presents make
To their Dames, but for their own sake,
Honour they'd do them, from 'em take;
Whose Gifts infer, to their Dame's Shame,
She's a poor Mercenary Dame,
Her Honour with their Bribes, defame;
But thee, I Honour so, that I
Will nothing give, thy Love to buy;
Thou never shalt be made, by me,
More Rich, but that I made may be,
The more in fear of losing thee;
To make my Rivals more Love make
To thee, but for my Money's sake,
That, and thee from me, more to take;
For Bracelets, I, because I'm Poor,
Send Couplets, thee to set-off more;
Give thee no Ring with Gems in it,
But Po'sies, sparkling more with Wit,
Which thee (my Dear,) shall Honour more,
Than any Ring that e'er you wore;
So, with Poetic Licence, Girl!
I'll make thy Hair Gold, thy Teeth Pearl,
Rubies your Lips, Diamonds your Eyes,
That thee, so more Men, more may Prize;
When we wou'd most oblige a Friend,
Presents which last most, most we send;
Then, the most pleasing, lasting thing,
Men, to their Vain Dames, send, or bring,
Is welcome Praise, or Flattery,
To get a Dame's good Graces by,
Which will last her Eternally;
And more Proud even make her grow,
Than cou'd the Richest Present do;
Gold Presents shou'd you from me take,
Your self you Mercenary make;
To lose your Credit, by your Gain;
To be less valu'd by your Man;
But she, who hers on Free-cost loves,
By being cheap, her Honour proves;
Hire only cou'd thy Love defame,
I have such Care of thy Good Name,
I'll honour thee, not to thy Shame;
Thy Love, Faith, Honour, no one Shall,
E'er by my Bribe in Question call;
In Love, and Gratitude to thee,
Thou shalt no Present have from me,
Since Hire wou'd thy Dishonour be;
For he, his Mistress most wou'd slight,
Who thinks Gold cou'd her Love requite,
Weighs her Fame with it, thinks her Light;
The more our Mistresses we prize,
And call them, our Divinities;
But Hearts we to them sacrifice;
Poor Poets can but Praises give,
For Blessings, they from them receive;
Angels below, like those above,
We can but Bribe, with Praise, Faith, Love;
Love's Votaries their Angels wrong,
Paying them ought, but Praise, or Song;
And False Friends, as False Deities,
Are they who Bless for Sacrifice;
Fear, for Mens Faith in them, return,
And broken Hearts, which for them burn;
Whilst true She-Saints, and Goddesses,
Expect but Faith, from those they bless;
But broken Hearts will from 'em crave,
Whom from Love's lasting Flames they save;
As thou art my Divinity,
Thy Blessings I wou'd beg, not buy,
My Love, Faith, more to justifie;
They prize you less, who give you more,
Prophane you more, whom I adore;
Vows make a Goddess, Hire a Whore;
Praise not to give, but from her take,
Which her wou'd Mercenary make;
By Sacrilegious Off'rings so,
Robbers, of Offerers, to grow;
So to prophane, and to debase
With Off'rings, their Divine Love's Grace,
Lost but by Bribes, gain'd but by Praise.