Classic Poem

Poet.

So round, my god, may shady coverings bend,
No sunbeams scorch thy face, no snows offend!
Whence are the fair so proud to win thy heart,
Yet rude thy beard, and guiltless thou of art?
Naked thou stand'st, expos'd to wintry snows!
Naked thou stand'st when burning Sirius glows!
Thus I — and thus the garden-power replied,
A crooked sickle glittering by his side.

Priapus.

Take no repulse — at first, what though they fly!
O'er come at last, reluctance will comply.
The vine in time full ripen'd clusters bears,
And circling time brings back the rolling spheres:
In time soft rains through marble sap their way,
And time taught man to tame fierce beasts of prey,
Nor, aw'd by conscience, meanly dread to swear;
Love-oaths, unratified, wild tempests bear!
Banish then scruples, if you'd gain a heart;
Swear, swear by Pallas' locks, Diana's dart;
By all that's most rever'd — if they require:
(Oaths bind not eager love, thank heaven's good sire!)
Nor be too slow; your slowness you'll deplore;
Time posts; and, oh! youth's raptures soon are o'er:
Now forests bloom, and purple earth looks gay;
Bleak winter blows, and all her charms decay:
How soon the steed to age's stiffness yields,
So late a victor in the' Olympic fields!
I've seen the aged oft lament their fate,
That, senseless, they had learn'd to live too late.
Ye partial gods, and can the snake renew
His youthful vigour and his burnish'd hue?
But youth and beauty pass'd; is art in vain
To bring the coy deserters back again?

Poet.

Jove gives alone the powers of wit and wine,
In youth immortal, spite of years to shine.

Priapus.

Yield prompt compliance to the maid's desires;
A prompt compliance fans the lover's fires:
Go pleas'd where'er she goes, though long the way,
Though the fierce dog-star dart his sultry ray;
Though painted Iris gird the bluish sky,
And sure portends that rattling storms are nigh:
Or, if the fair-one pant for silvan fame,
Gay drag the meshes, and provoke the game:
Nay, should she choose to risk the driving gale;
Or steer, or row, or agile hand the sail:
No toil, though weak, though fearful, thou forbear:
No toils should tire you, and no dangers scare:
Occasion smiles, then snatch an ardent kiss;
The coy may struggle, but will grant the bliss:
The bliss obtain'd, the fictious struggle pass'd;
Unbid, they'll clasp you in their arms at last.

Poet.

Alas! in such degenerate days as these,
No more love's gentle wiles the beauteous please!
If poor, all gentle stratagems are vain:
The fair-ones languish now alone for gain.
Oh may dishonour be the wretch's share,
Who first with hateful gold seduc'd the fair!

Priapus.

Ye charming dames, prefer the tuneful quire,
Nor meanly barter heavenly charms for hire.
What cannot song? The purple locks that glow'd
On Nisus' head, harmonious song bestow'd!
What cannot strains? By tuneful strains alone
Fair ivory, Pelops, on thy shoulder shone!
While stars with nightly radiance gild the pole,
Earth boasts her oaks, or mighty waters roll,
The fair, whose beauty poets deign to praise,
Shall bloom uninjur'd in poetic lays:
While she who hears not when the muses call,
But flies their favourites, gold's inglorious thrall,
Shall prove (believe the bard, or soon or late,)
A dread example of avenging fate!
Soft flattering songs the Cyprian queen approves;
And aids the suppliant swain with all her loves.

Poet.

The god, no novice in the' intriguing trade,
This answer, Titius, to my question made:
But caution bids you fly the' insidious fair,
And paints the perils of their eyes and air;
Nor these alone devoted man subdue,
Devoted man their slightest actions woo:
Be cautious those who list — but ye who know
Desire's hot fever, and contempt's chill woe;
Me grateful praise — contempt shall pain no more;
But wish meet wish, instructed by my lore.
By various means, while others seek for fame,
Scorn'd love to counsel be my noblest aim.
Wide stands my gate for all — I rapt foresee
The time, when I Love's oracle shall be!
When round my seat shall press the' enamour'd throng,
Attend my motions, and applaud my song.
Alas! my hopes are fled, my wiles are vain;
The fair I doat on treats me with disdain:
Yet spare me, charmer, your disdain betrays
To witty laughter my too boastful lays.