Classic Poem

While you devote your lyric life
To Theban songs of martial strife,
And — if I'm false may Heaven frown! —
Rival great Homer for his crown,
I still, as is my wont, rehearse
My loves in soft and tender verse.
Sorrow I serve rather than Art —
A bard less of the mind than heart.

In such a way my life is spent;
This is my marble monument;
This is my sole and single claim
To what resembles lyric fame.
Let laurel on my brow be laid
For that I pleased a knowing maid,
And suffered frequently the thrust
Of threatenings bitter and unjust.

Let future lovers read my song
And learn how Love has used me wrong;
And if the bow-and-arrow kid
Should strike you — which the gods forbid!
Then shall you give the wars a shove
And yearn — in vain — to sing of Love.
When Love arrives too late the lute
To your too tardy song is mute.

Then shall you know my songs had fire
And say I strummed a wicked lyre;
And you will rank me far above
The bards who failed to sing of Love.
And youths to see my grave will go
And cry, " Great bard, dost lie so low? "
Beware, then, how you spurn my stuff:
Love coming late will treat you rough.