Classic Poem

I HAVE some merit too, old man!
And show me greater if you can.
I always took what Beauty gave,
Nor, when she snatcht it back, lookt grave.
Us modest youths it most beseems
To drink from out the running streams:
Love on their banks delights to dwell . . .
The bucket of the household well
He never tugs at, thinking fit
Only to quench his torch in it.
Shameless old fellow! do you boast
Of conquests upon every coast?
I, O ye Gods! should be content
(Yea, after all the sighs I've spent,
The sighs, and, what is yet more hard,
The minas, talents, gone in nard!)
With only one: I would confine
Meekly this homesick heart of mine
'Twixt Lampsacus and Hammon's shrine.