Classic Poem

With glasses form'd for joy to fight,
Is what the Thracians do in spite;
Let Bacchus know no barb'rous customs here,
But keep the modest God from bloody discord clear.
Can such strange contraries agree,
As wine and lights in social glee,
And sabres such as savage Media wears? —
Cease your vile noise, my friends, nor quit your easy chairs.
Me too! — shall I your revels join,
And sour my good Falernian wine? —
No, let the brother of the Locrian fair,
Rather his lovesick joys, and darling flame declare.
He will not — On no other plan,
No other terms I take my can —
Whatever damsel e'er thy breast inflam'd,
Was of ingenuous birth, nor need you be asham'd.
Whatever be the case speak out
To friendly ears, nor make a doubt. —
" Ah wretch! how thou art hamper'd in a straight,
A lad, whose matchless worth deserv'd a better fate."
What sorceress, what magic art,
What pow'r divine can ease thy smart? —
E'en Pegasus to clear thee will be loth
From one compos'd of whimsy, wantonness and wrath.