Classic Poem

Prithee, friend, that hedge behold:
When all we rhyming fools grow old,
That hedge our state will represent,
Who in vain flourish life have spent:
Amidst it stands a rivalled tree
Now representing sixty-three,
And like it you and I shall be.
The bare vine round about it clings
With mischievous, entangling strings,
The night-shade with a dismal flower,
Curls o'er it, like a lady's tower;
Or honesty with feathered down,
Like grizzled hair deforms its crown;
Luxuriant plants that o'er it spread,
Not med'cinal for heart or head,
Which serve but to amuse the sight,
Are like the nothings that we write.
Yet still 'tis thought that tree's well placed,
With beauteous eglantine embraced:
But see how false appearance proves,
If he that honey suckle loves;
His love the honeysuckle scorns,
Which climbs by him to reach the thorns;
The rival thorn his age derides,
And gnaws like jealousy his sides.
Then let us cease, my friend, to sing
When ever youth is on the wing,
Unless we solidly indite,
Some good infusing while we write;
Lest with our follies hung around,
We like that tree and hedge be found,
Grotesque and trivial, shunned by all,
And soon forgotten when we fall.