Classic Poem

Art never yet was common to the Herd,
She never yet cared aught for public word,
Nor public frown, nor ribald public jeer —
Art holds her head erect, sans shame or fear.
They little know her blithesome, bonny way
Who think she soils her skirts with common clay;
While those who ape Sir Pandarus of Troy,
And hope for half-pence thro' her vain annoy,
Find, when too late, the task beyond their pow'r
At Ten o'clock , or any other hour.