Classic Poem

Grown old in courts, thou surely art not one
Who keeps the rigid rules of ancient honour;
Well skill'd to sooth a foe with looks of kindness,
To sink the fatal precipice before him,
And then lament his fall, with seeming friendship:
Open to all, true only to thyself,
Thou know'st those arts, which blast with envious praise,
Which aggravate a fault, with feign'd excuses,
And drive discountenanc'd virtue from the throne;
That leave the blame of rigour to the prince,
And of his ev'ry gift usurp the merit;
That hide, in seeming zeal, a wicked purpose,
And only build upon another's ruin.