Classic Poem

Finish, these Languors make me sick,
Of dying airs I know the Trick,
Long since I've learnt to well explain
Th'unmeaning Cant of Fire and pain
And see thrô all the senseless Lyes
Of burning darts from killing Eyes,
I'm tir'd with this continual Rout
Of bowing low and leading out,
Finish.

Finish this tedious dangling Trade
By which so many Fools are made,
For Fools they are, who you can please
With such affected (arts) as these.
At Operas (?) to stand
And slyly press the given hand,
Thus you may wait whole years in vain.
But sure you would, were you in pain,