Classic Poem

Nay, if thou lov'st thy handmaid, Xanthias, blush not:
Long since the slave Briseïs, with white beauty
O'ermastering him who ne'er before had yielded,
Conquered Achilles;

So, too, the captive form of fair Tecmessa
Conquered her captor Telamonian Ajax;
And a wronged maiden, in the midst of triumph,
Fired Agamemnon,

What time had fallen the barbarian forces
Before the might of the Thessalian victor,
And Hector's loss made easy to worn Hellas
Troy's mighty ruin.

How dost thou know but what thy fair-haired Phyllis
May make thee son-in-law to splendid parents?
Doubtless she mourns the wrong to race and hearth-gods
Injured, but regal.

Believe not thy beloved of birth plebeian;
A girl so faithful, so averse from lucre,
Could not be born of an ignoble mother
Whom thou wouldst blush for.

That lovely face, those arms, those tapering ankles—
Nay, in my praises never doubt my honour:
The virtuous man who rounds the age of forty
Hold unsuspected.