Classic Poem

Young Poets, in Love,
Will call from above
Cytherea , drest all in her Graces and Airs;
And will tell their fond Dreams of Ida 's soft Grove,
Of Cupids, of Doves, and of Carrs.

Some Cloe beside,
Or Sylvia must hide
The Name of the Fair that possesses their Heart.
Thus sighing in Pomp of Poetical Pride,
They vainly make Shew of their Art.

No Poet am I,
And no Dame of the Sky,
No Fiction shall ever disgrace my bright Flame;
That the Truth is most beautiful, none will deny,
When I tell them, that — — is her Name.

Then fill up my Glass;
Here's a Health to the Lass:
As for Venus , I fairly now bid you Adieu,
Since on her you can never reflect any Praise,
I'll not labour to compliment you.