Classic Poem

THE PETITION .

In Imitation of Catullus.

I S there a pious pleasure that proceeds
From contemplation of our virtuous deeds?
That all mean sordid actions we despise,
And scorn to gain a throne by cheats and lies?
Thyrsis thou hast sure blessings laid in store,
From thy just dealing in this curst amour:
What honour can in words or deeds be shewn,
Which to the fair thou hast not said and done?
On her false heart they all are thrown away;
She only swears, more eas'ly to betray.
Ye pow'rs that know the many vows she broke,
Free my just soul from this unequal yoke!
My love boils up, and like a raging flood,
Runs through my veins, and taints my vital blood.
I do not vainly beg she may grow chaste,
Or with an equal passion burn at last:
The one she cannot practise though she would;
And I contemn the other, though she should:
Nor ask I vengeance on the perjur'd jilt;
'Tis punishment enough to have her guilt,
I beg but balsam for my bleeding breast,
Cure for my wounds, and from my labours rest.