Classic Poem

Wit has of late took up a Trick t'appear,
Unmannerly, or at the best severe
And Poets share the Fate by which we fall,
When kindly we attempt to please you all.
'Tis hard, your scorn should against such prevail,
Whose ends are to divert you, tho' they fail.
You Men would think it an ilnatur'd Jest,
Should we laugh at you when you did your best.
Then rail not here, though you see reason for't.
If Wit can find it self no better sport;
Wit is a very foolish thing at Court.
Wit's bus'ness is to please, and not to fright,
'Tis no Wit to be always in the right:
You'l find it none, who dare be so to night.
Few so ill bred will venture to a Play,
To spy out Faults in what we Women say.
For us no matter what we speak, but how:
How kindly can we say — I hate you now.
And for the men, if you'l laugh at e'm, do;
They mind themselves so much, they'l ne're mind you. —
But why do I descend to lose a Prayer
On those small Saints in Wit, the God sits there.
To you (Great Sir) my Message hither tends,
From Youth and Beauty your Allies and Friends.
See my Credentials written in my Face,
They challenge your Protection in this place:
And hither come with such a Force of Charms,
As may give check even to your prosp'rous Armes:
Millions of Cupids hovering in the Rear,
Like Eagles following fatal Troops, appear.
All waiting for the slaughter, which draws nigh,
Of those bold Gazers, who this Night must dye.
Nor can you 'scape our soft Captivitie,
From which old Age alone must set you free.
Then tremble at the fatal Consequence —
Since, 'tis well known for your own part (Great Prince)
'Gainst us you still have made a weak Defence. —
Be generous, and wise, and take our part;
Remember we have Eyes, and you a Heart.
Else you may find, too late, that we are things
Born to kil Vassals, and to conquer Kings.
But oh! to what vain Conquest I pretend,
Whil'st Love is our Commander, and your Friend.
Our Victory your Empire more assures,
For Love will ever make the Triumph yours.