Classic Poem

I Divine Lyeus prize,
Who with mirth and wit supplies:
Compast with a Jovial Quire,
I affect to touch the Lyre:
But of all, my greatest Joy
Is with sprightly Maids to toy:
My free heart no Envy bears,
Nor anothers envy fears;
Proof against invective wrongs,
Brittle shafts of pois'nous tongues.
Wine with quarrels sowr'd I hate,
Or feasts season'd with debate:
But I love a harmless Measure;
Life to Quiet hath no pleasure.