Classic Poem

The wanton Herd of Rakes profest
Thy Windows rarely now molest
With midnight Raps, or break thy Rest
With Riot.

Thy Door which kindly once could move
The plyant Hinge, begins to love
Its Threshold, and no more shall prove
Unquiet,
Now less and less assail thine Ear
These Plaints, ‘Ah sleepest thou my Dear,
While I whole Nights thy True-love here
Am dying?
You in your Turn shall weep the Taunts
Of young and insolent Gallants,
In some dark Alley's Midnight Haunts
Late-plying:
While raging Tempests chill the Skies,
And burning Lust (such Lust as tries
The madding Dams of Horses) fries
Thy Liver,
Our Youth, regardless of thy Frown,
Their Heads with fresher Wreaths shall crown,
And fling thy wither'd Garlands down