Classic Poem

Though midst the noblest poets thou hast place,
Flaccus, the offspring of Antenor's race;
Renounce the Muses' songs and charming choir,
For none of them enrich though they inspire.
Court not Apollo; Pallas has the gold,
She 's wise and does the gods in mortgage hold.
What profit is there in an ivy wreath?
Its fruits the loaden olive sink beneath.
In Helicon there 's naught but springs and bays,
The Muses' harps loud-sounding, empty praise.
What with Parnassus' strains hast thou to do?
The Roman forum 's rich and nearer too.
There chinks the cash, but round the poet's chair
The smacks of kisses only fill the air.