Classic Poem

You for every line I make
Promise me a kiss for wages;
Gladly, then, I fill the pages,
Less reward I often take.
Still we ought to make some measure,
I with lines, with kisses you.
Let me count: here's seven due,
Call it eight! The more my pleasure.

Eight's unlucky, worse than seven,
Nine of old the Grecian Muses,
One for Sweden ten excuses.
The Apostles were eleven,
Judas' name I do not reckon,
He who kissed so faithlessly;
Fear not such a kiss from me,
Least of all when fair lips beckon.

What's the tally, all this time?
Eighteen; some would think it plenty.
Nineteen — I must match the rhyme,
So perforce will make it twenty.
Well, the stanza's nigh complete,
And I steer me back to shore now,
Therefore be content, my sweet,
For the nonce with twenty-four now.