Classic Poem

Of late I boasted I could happy be,
Resume the man, and not my Delia see!
And boasts of manhood and of bliss are vain;
Back to my bondage I return again:
And like a top am whirl'd, which boys, for sport,
Lash on the pavement of a level court.
What can atone, my fair, for crimes like these?
I'll bear with patience, use me as you please!
Yet, by Love's shafts, and by your braided hair,
By all the joys we stole, your suppliant spare.
When sickness dim'd of late your radiant eyes,
My restless, fond petitions won the skies.
Thrice I with sulphur purified you round,
And thrice the rite with songs the' enchantress bound:
The cake, by me thrice sprinkled, put tOflight
The death-denouncing phantoms of the night:
And I nine times, in linen garbs array'd,
In silent night, nine times to Trivia pray'd.
What did I not? Yet what reward have I?
You love another, your preserver fly!
He tastes the sweet effects of all my cares,
My fond lustrations, and my solemn prayers.
Are these the joys my madding fancy drew,
If young-eyed Health restor'd your rosy hue?
I fondly thought, sweet maid; oh, thought in vain!
With you to live a blithesome village-swain.
When yellow Ceres asks the reaper's hand,
" Delia (said I) will guard the reaper's band;
Delia will keep, when hinds unload the vine,
The choicest grapes for me, the richest wine:
My flocks she'll count, and oft will sweetly deign
To clasp some prattler of my menial train:
With pious care will load each rural shrine,
For ripen'd crops a golden sheaf assign,
Cates for my fold, rich clusters for my vine:
No, no domestic care shall touch my soul;
You, Delia, reign despotic o'er the whole!
And will Messala fly from pomp of state,
And deign to enter at my lowly gate?
The choicest fruitage that my trees afford,
Delia will cull herself, to deck the board;
And wondering, such transcendent worth to see,
The fruit present, thy blushing handmaid she.
Such were the fond chimeras of my brain,
Which now the winds have wafted o'er the main.
O power of love! whom still my soul obey'd,
What has my tongue against thy mother said?
Guiltless of ill, unmark'd with incest's stain,
I stole no garland from her holy fane:
For crimes like these I'd abject crawl the ground,
Kiss her dread threshold, and my forehead wound.
But ye who, falsely wise, deride my pains,
Beware; your hour approaches — Love has chains.
I've known the young, who ridicul'd his rage,
Love's humblest vassals, when oppress'd with age:
Each art I've known them try, to win the fair,
Smooth their hoarse voice, and dress their scanty hair;
I've known them, in the street, her maid detain,
And weeping, beg her to assist their pain.
At such preposterous love each schoolboy sneers,
Shuns, as an omen, or pursues with fleers.
Why do you crush your slave, fair queen of joy?
Destroying me, your harvest you destroy!