Classic Poem

Where are all thy beauties now, all hearts enchaining?
Whither are thy flatterers gone with all their faining?
All fled; and thou alone still here remaining.

Thy rich state of twisted gold to baize is turned;
Cold as thou art, are thy loves that so much burned:
Who die in flatt'rers' arms are seldom mourned.

Yet, in spite of envy, this be still proclaimed,
That none worthier than thyself thy worth hath blamed:
When their poor names are lost, thou shalt live famed.

When thy story, long time hence, shall be perused,
Let the blemish of thy rule be thus excused:
None ever liv'd more just, none more abused.