Classic Poem

He who attempts his own high mark in vain
Still seeks by falsehood to work others ill:
See! how his fangs turn on himself again,
While he would wound me without cause or skill.
Mark his own poison in his own veins burn,
And his rash weapons his own bosom strike,
Whilst into mirrors all his falsehoods turn
To shew himself most hideous when most like.
A double flame he boasts—and bursts and binds
Full often the same tie—and by those arts
(Who would believe it?) into favor winds
Even with the Gods; But Cupid versed in hearts
Yields not such beauty to such snares, and finds
My purer flame more fit to point his darts.