Classic Poem

The Lords debate, the Commons brawl,
The people pay the piper;
There's something wanting unto all,
And still the Age grows riper.

The Age is doing what she can:
And barren blooms are falling:
She calls in anguish for her Man,
And she is hoarse with calling.

A world of Fairy! Saints of Love!
For one short Season lend him,
For if he come not from above
The Devil is sure to send him.