Classic Poem

Be still, thou busy foolish thing,
Nor urge me more of her to sing
Who [caused] all thy pain.
Why wilt thou dwell upon a theme
Which serves but to increase your [flame],
That still must burn in vain?

Thus to my heart I oft have said,
But as the dear enchanting maid
Has seized my soul entire,
My reason with my love combined
Is grown to every danger blind,
And joins to fan the fire.

Why pay we to the pow'rs above
Our adoration and our love,
But that they perfect are?
Though mortals cannot perfect be,
The nearest to perfection she,
The next our love should share.