Classic Poem

Cupid , begon! who wou'd on thee rely,
And thus at every moment wish to dye?
Death is my wish when on thy guilt I think,
(Thy faithless guilt) at which I fain wou'd wink.
False Maid, thou various torment of my life,
Thou flying pleasure, and thou lasting grief;
No doubtfull Letters thy lost faith accuse,
Nor private gifts, thou mightst with ease excuse
Such proofs, one word of thine might overcome;
Why is my cause so good, and thou so dumb?
Happy's the man that's handsomely deceiv'd,
Whose Mistress swears and lies, and is believ'd.
These Eyes beheld thee, when thou thoughtst me gone
In books and signs (nor yet in those alone)
Conveying the glad message of thy Love
To that gay, vain, dull Fopp that sate above.
I knew the Language soon, what could be hid
From Lovers Eyes of all ye said or did?
When others rose, I saw thee Dart a kiss,
The wanton prelude to a farther bliss:
Not such as Wives to their cold Husbands give,
But such as hot Adulterers receive.
Such as might kindle frozen appetite,
And fire even wasted nature with delight.
What art thou mad, I cry'd, before my face,
To steal my wealth, and my new Rival grace?
I'll rise and seize my own upon the place.
These soft endearments should not farther go,
But be the secret treasure of us two,
How comes this third in for a share I'd know?
This, and what more my grief inspir'd, I said;
Her face she cover'd with a Conscious red:
Like a Cloud guilded by the rising Sun,
Or Virgin newly by her Love undone.
Those very blushes pleas'd, when she cast down
Her lovely Eyes, with a disdainfull frown.
Disdain became her, looking on the Earth,
Sad were her looks, but Charming above mirth.
I could have kill'd my self, or him, or her,
Scarce did my rage her tender Cheeks forbear:
When I beheld her Face my anger cool'd,
I felt my self to a mere Lover fool'd.
I, who but now so fierce, grow tame and sue,
With such a kis we might our Love renew.
She smil'd and gave me one might Jove disarm,
And from his hand the brandisht Thunder charm.
'Twas worse than death, to think my Rival knew
Such Joys as till that hour to me were new.
She gave much better kisses than I taught,
And something strange was in each touch me-thought.
They pleas'd me but too well, and thou didst tongue,
With too much art and skill, for one so young:
Nor is this all, though I of this complain,
Nor should I for a kiss be so in pain:
But thine cou'd never but in Bed be taught,
I fear how dear thou hast thy Knowledge bought.