Classic Poem

1

Love, I must tell thee, I'l no longer be
A Victime to thy beardless Deity:
Nor shall this heart of mine,
Now 'tis return'd,
Be offered at thy shrine,
Or at thine Altar burn'd.
Love, like Religion's made an aiery name,
To awe those souls whom want of wit makes tame.

2

There's no such thing as Quiver, Shafts or Bow,
Nor does Love wound, but men imagine so
Or if it does perplex
And grieve the mind,
'Tis the poor masculine sex:
Women no sorrows find
'Tis not our persons, nor our parts, can move 'um,
Nor is't men's worth, but wealth, makes Ladies love 'um.

3

Reason henceforth, not love, shall be my guide,
My fellow-creatures shan't be Deified;
I'le now a rebel be,
And so pull down
That Distaff-Monarchy,
And Femals fancy'd crown
In these unbridled times who would not strive
To free his neck from all prerogative?