Classic Poem

I.

Let me thy Kindness but revive,
Who Dy'd long since for Love of thee;
My Songs shall make thy Beauty live.
Altho' that it has Murther'd me;

II.

As Arrows shot back, on the Foe,
By them, at whom they first were aim'd,
Of their Defence, Offensive grow,
When by their own Arms, they are maim'd;

III.

My Song's so meant, for my Love's Aid,
In overcoming Cruel thee;
Of my Help once, now thine are made,
In Conquering, and Wounding me;

IV.

My Love, meant thee to mollifie,
Stiffens thee, but into more Pride,
In giving thee more Vanity,
My Courtship has my Love deny'd;

V.

So my Songs made, to make you Love
Me more, more frustrate their Intent;
By which, more Vain, less Kind you prove,
Till by my Love, I yours prevent;

VI.

So the most Pushing Enemy,
Too forward in his Bold Attack,
Oft makes his own Artillery,
In his Assault, to force him back.