Classic Poem

If we are one dear friend! why shouldst thou be
At once unequal to thy self and me?
By thy release thou swell'st my debt the more,
And dost but rob thy self to make mee poor.
What part can I have in thy luminous Cone ?
What Flame (since my loves thine) can call my own?
The palest star is lesse the son of night,
Who but thy borrow'd know no native light:
Was't not enough thou freely didst bestow
The Muse, but thou wouldst give the Laurel too?
And twice my aims by thy assistance raise,
Conferring first the merit, then the praise?
But I should do thee greater injurie,
Did I believe this praise were meant to me,
Or thought, though thou hast worth enough to spare
T'enrich another soul, that mine should share.
Thy Muse seeming to lend calls home her fame,
And her due wreath doth in renouncing claim.