Classic Poem

Be not too proud, imperious Dame,
Your charms are transitory things,
May melt, while you at Heaven aim,
Like Icarus's Waxen Wings;
And you a part in his misfortune bear,
Drown'd in a briny Ocean of despair.

Your think your beauties are above,
The Poets Brain, and Painters Hand,
As if upon the Throne of Love
You only should the World command:
Yet know, though you presume your title true,
There are pretenders, that will Rival you.

There's an experienc'd Rebel, Time,
And in his Squadrons Poverty;
There's Age that brings along with him
A terrible Artillery:
And if against all these thou keep'st thy Crown,
Th' Usurper Death will make thee lay it down.