Classic Poem

My Florio, wildest of his sex,
(Who sure the veriest saint wou'd vex)
From beauty roves to beauty;
Yet, tho' abroad the wanton roam,
Whene'er he deigns to stay at home,
He always minds his duty.

Something to every charming she,
In thoughtless prodigality,
He's granting still and granting,
To Phyllis that, to Cloe this,
And every madam, every miss;
Yet I find nothing wanting.

If haply I his will displease,
Tempestuous as th' autumnal seas
He foams and rages ever;
But when he ceases from his ire,
I cry, such spirit, and such fire,
Is surely wond'rous clever.

I ne'er want reason to complain;
But sweet is pleasure after pain,
And every joy grows greater.
Then trust me, damsels, whilst I tell,
I should not like him half so well,
If I cou'd make him better.