Classic Poem

Not that I thought you'd faithful prove,
O Gellius! to my ill-starr'd love,
For well your treachery I knew;
But, that no wanton sister she,
No mother, for your lust could be,
My soul's sweet ruin I consign'd to you.

Nay, tho' you are my ancient friend,
I durst not on your faith depend;
For 'tis with you a maxim grown,
The more a deed be base and vile,
Unworthy of pursuit or toil,
With readier joy to make that deed your own.