Classic Poem

Hence , vain intruder, haste away!
Wash not with thy unhallow'd brine
The footsteps of my Celia's shrine;
Nor on her purer altars lay
Thy empty words, accents that may
Some looser dame to love incline:
She must have offerings more divine;
Such pearly drops, as youthful May
Scatters before the rising day;
Such smooth soft language, as each line
Might stroke an angry god, or stay
Jove's thunder, make the hearers pine
With envy: do this, thou shalt be
Servant to her, rival to me.