Classic Poem

Whether in soft Idalian Strains,
She deign'd to sing of Flocks and Plains,
Of Hills and Groves,
And rural Loves,
Of beauteous Nymphs and Swains.
Or in swift trilling Lyricks wrote,
Or to keen Satyr turn'd her Thought,
And by a sharp, tho' pleasing Wound,
The secret Springs of Vice and Irreligion found.
Such Graces did in each appear,
Such Strength in ev'ry Line;
Horace himself must yield to her,
And old Theocritus prefer,
Her Justness of Design.
(Rich in superiour Excellence,
Her chaster Muse by nobler Ways,
Could charm the Mind, exalt the Sense,
And bright Idea's raise.)
True to their Worth, impartial to their Crimes,
She good did chuse,
And bad refuse,
A bright Example to succeeding Times.
So the judicious Bee,
Tastes ev'ry Flow'r, and ev'ry Tree,
And bitter Turns to sweet, by native Chymistry.