Classic Poem

Of that short roll of friends writ in my heart
Which with thy name begins, since their depart,
Whether in the English Provinces they be,
Or drink of Po, Sequan, or Danuby,
There's none that sometimes greets us not, and yet
Your Trent is Lethe; that past, us you forget.
You do not duties of societies,
If from the embrace of a loved wife you rise,
View your fat beasts, stretched barns, and laboured fields,
Eat, play, ride, take all joys which all day yields,
And then again to your embracements go:
Some hours on us your friends, and some bestow
Upon your Muse, else both we shall repent,
I that my love, she that her gifts on you are spent.