Classic Poem

Strephon to-night his Chloe told,
He had the Head-ach, and grew old;
Tho' well she knew her artful Swain
But counterfeited Age and Pain,
To hide his cold declining Passion,
His Want of Love and Inclination;
For Chloe's Face, so often seen,
Put her poor Strephon in the Spleen;
Nor could her Wit, or Neatness please him,
Or all her Smiles or Prattle raise him:
He left the pensive Nymph alone,
His painful Absence to bemoan.
Strephon beware, lest in Return,
With a new Flame your Chloe burn;
Consider I have Sp-n--r seen,
And quickly lay aside your Spleen,
Or, by the God of Verse, I vow
With Antlers I'll adorn your Brow;
No City Knight shall boast a Pair
More large, more branching, or more fair:
Their Horns are gilt, but yours shall be
As naked as a blasted Tree.

So, Sir, no more of your Deception,
For I am blest with quick Perception;
Phoebus has given me piercing Eyes,
To look thro' Falshood and Disguise;
Then lay aside this little Art,
I have, and I will keep your Heart.