Classic Poem

Why tell you me to lay the cittern by
And vex no more its disobedient strings,
That every clash the soul of Sweetness wrings,
Quenching the lamp of bright Attention's eye?
What though the tender ear of Harmony
Shrinks, as the plant draws up its leafy wings
With a fine sense of pain! The woodman sings
High in the rocky air, as rude as I;
Yon shepherd pipes upon a reed as shrill.
As ever blew in Arcady of yore;
They sing and play to please their passion's will,
And waste the tedious hour. I do no more!
Then leave me to my harp and to my lay,
Rebukable, yet unrebuked as they.