Classic Poem

Strong in the Muses' friendship, terrors vain
And melancholy to the winds I fling
For toys to play with on the Cretan main,
No whit concerned to know who reigns dread king

Of the bleak arctic land, what caused the flight
Of Tiridates. Maid of Pimpla, thou
That lovest pure fountain heads, a garland bright
Of sunny flowers weave for my Lamia's brow.

Without thine aid my praises nought of fame
Can bring. Be yours the task, ye sisters nine,
In novel strains of Lesbian style his name
To endow with immortality divine.