Classic Poem

Trying to fan his passion into flame,
You ancient dame, you choke a languid lover;
And when you call him many a pretty name,
It takes him simply ages to recover.

That's not the way—such blandishments abjure—
Offer him gold, a cellar, wine to fill it,
Slaves, houses, gorgeous plate, and furniture,
These may warm passion, your caresses chill it.