Classic Poem

All thy skill if thou collect,
Make a Cup as I direct:
Roses climbing ore the brim,
Yet must seem in Wine to swim;
Faces too there should be there,
None that frowns or wrinkles weare,
But the sprightly Son of Jove ,
With the beauteous Queen of Love;
There, beneath a pleasant shade
By a Vines wide branches made,
Must the Loves, their armes laid by,
Keep the Graces company:
And the bright-haird God of day
With a youthful Beavy play.