Classic Poem

Apollo, god of light and wit,
Could verse inspire, but seldom writ:
Refined all metals with his looks,
As well as chemists by their books:
As handsome as my Lady's page;
Sweet five and twenty was his age.
His wig was made of sunny rays,
He crowned his youthful head with bays:
Not all the court of heaven could show
So nice and so complete a beau.
No heir, upon his first appearance,
With twenty thousand pounds a year rents,
E'er drove, before he sold his land,
So fine a coach along the Strand;
The spokes, we are by Ovid told,
Were silver, and the axle gold.
(I own, 'twas but a coach and four,
For Jupiter allows no more.)

Yet with his beauty, wealth, and parts,
Enough to win ten thousand hearts;
No vulgar deity above
Was so unfortunate in love.

Three weighty causes were assigned,
That moved the nymphs to be unkind.
Nine muses always waiting round him,
He left them virgins as he found 'em.
His singing was another fault;
For he could reach to B in alt:
And, by the sentiments of Pliny,
Such singers are like Nicolini.
At last, the point was fully cleared;
In short; Apollo had no beard.