Classic Poem

He who thus sighs and sings his amorous pain
Moving all hearts with his enchanted lyre,
And asking love and pity in a strain
That softens hatred and appeases ire—
Who would believe it? turns and turns again,
Like sand before the desert wind of fire—
No faith—no love—no truth—he does but feign
Affection—torment—rapture—and desire—
Seeming at once to worship and despise
Fond hearts insidiously he wins to wear,
From female spoils his impious trophies rise;—
But Love will never yield the high-born fair
Who all reward to a true heart denies,
A victim to the faithless spoiler's snare.