Classic Poem

And must we part?
Ah Yes, Dear Poesy! Farewell;
At last, I can of freedome tell:
At last, am I releas'd from thy bewitching Spel.
For Bu's'nes, a more gainful Art,
Content with a more reasonable dole,
Asks but my head & hand — but Thou! My head & heart:
Thou my tho'ghts, my inmost Soul;
Thou my wishes wou'd'st controll,
My hopes, my aim's, my time, my Whole.
What wou'd'st Thou with my tho'ghts? Or what
My inmost Souls intended Lot?
What object for my wishes; or what part
Is there for hopes with thee? Unprofitable Art!
What wou'd'st thou with my Aims? What wou'd'st thou with my Time
But lavish All away in unavailing Rhyme.
Then thus, I put thee from my heart & head;
My Mornings early Theme, my Ev'nings late delights,
The leisure of my Days, the quiet of my Nights;
And take another in thy stead:
Bu's'nes, a fitter Part'ner of my Bed
Bu's'nes, a diligent, & frugal Spouse;
Not, like thee, divine fair;
But plain as Sabine Virgins were;
Like them, renown'd for homely care:
And of the richer House.
Bu's'nes, that brings a mighty dow'r
Of potent Gold whose mighty pow'r
So foil'd Acrisius wakeful Care;
Stop'd Atalanta in her swift Ca'reer:
And urg'd three Goddesses to War.
For thee, the Lovers whine, the Poets write,
For thee, the Lawyers brawl, the Soldiers fight,
The Statesman spies Abuses, by thy light;
The Moralists to Works, to Faith the Ministers invite.
Thou art the Lover's Arbo'rs, Mistress, passion,
The Poets Hero, Patron, Inspiration,
The Lawyers Love of Right, the Soldiers Reputation,
The Statesmans Zeal to save the Nation;
The Moralists philanthropy:
The Ministers pretended Calls & real Deity.
All these to wealthy Bu's'nes wisely bow.
But what hast Thou, Vain Phantasm! To bestow?
A Silent grove, a purling Stream,
A Kiss surprised, a joyous Dream,
A Lock, a Fan, a Knot, A Toy,
A Smile, a Step, a Lip, or Eye,
A Tale of Lesbia kind or coy,
Or blubber'd if her Sparrow dye,
A Gnat, a Grashopper, a Butterfly;
Or Issa's lamentable Tragedy:
These are the generous Themes thy Songs employ.
Or, if th' enchanting juyce inflame thy Rage;
Then the plump Clusters of the lusty Vine,
Good father Bachus, & thy Sparkling Wine,
Its dye, its flavor, & its Age;
The dress, & odor's of th' officious Page;
The Gravings, or Relievo: on the bowl;
Then clean welorder'd Treat, the Careless Soul;
In frantick Hymns, thy Vocal pow'rs engage:
Til e'ry L[ ] is turn'd to rage,
Thy sons fight o'er the Thracian Wars;
Hurl'd bowls with meeting botles tilt,
The precious stream is underserv'dly spilt;
The chearful song is drown'd in wild Uproar:
And heaps of cutting Paines spread the Floor.
Or do'st Thou boast thy famed Dramatic Rules?
What are thy Tragic & thy comic Tools,
But Ancient Madmen, Modern Fools?
Or if thy daring Pineons stretch
Epic's lofty heights, & that Immortal Man
Who from the flames of Troy undaunted ran:
Behold him dwindled to a timerous Slave:
A Superstitious sniveling Wretch,
And any thing but — Brave.

These are all thy boasted Store:
Which speak thee most emphatically Poor.
Yet these adorn'd with sparkling Wit,
And these in dancing Numbers writ,
(Joyn'd to the Witchcraft of thy Voice,
Thy Morals, and thy Figures happy choice)
The Wisdome of past Times to Us convey
In such an amiable, & potent way;
The Art of living teach in such a wanton Dress,
As They intended nothing less;
Give such agreable, & wholesome Food,
So gratifie the Sence, yet make us Good:
That did not hard Necessity controll
The free Election of my Soul;
I cou'd reject with just disdain
Bus'ness, and her tawdry Train;
And take thee to my Arms, Dear Poesy! Again.