Classic Poem

I.

Virtue , sure is, but Sin unknown;
For Love, till Scandal 'tis, is none,
Not our Fault, till our Shame 'tis grown;

II.

All Virtue but Discretion is,
Not any Crime, is that, or this,
That is ill done, but tak'n amiss;

III.

Modesty proves but Impudence,
To Virtue but a Vain Pretence,
Against our Nature, and our Sense;

IV.

She, who for Love lets her Friend die,
Saves her Fame, to her Infamy;
Whoring's no Sin, when Charity;

V.

To save your Fame, I lost my own,
Who but more Pleasure, as Renown,
Had had, had I our Joys, made known;

VI.

My Gratitude to justifie,
I did your Love to me deny,
Show'd my Truth to you, by my Lie;

VII.

You made your Modesty, your Shame,
Which did, what we had done, proclaim,
Your self, for Fear of Shame, defame;

VIII.

My Kiss had done your Fame no Wrong,
By stopping your Mouth with my Tongue,
Had not your own Tongue been too long;

IX.

So you may thank your Modesty,
Which publish'd most your Infamy,
Whilst my Tongue had kept Secrecy.

X.

Then, for your own Fault, blame me not,
Your own Tongue sham'd you, crying out,
Whilst mine did stop your Mouth, and Throat;

XI.

I, what we did, had still conceal'd,
By my Tongue, in your Mouth, I held,
Had your Tongue, not your Shame, reveal'd;

XII.

The Sin, till known, is not our Shame,
Your Long-Tongue then, not mine, pray blame,
Your Modesty 'twas, lost your Fame;

XIII.

Which made you to resist me so,
Till my Desire did Stronger grow,
So you forc'd me to Ravish you;

XIV.

Then 'twas not, what by me was done,
To thee, by my Tongue, but your own,
Which since, is your Dishonour grown.