Classic Poem

Ths little Instrument of Art,
Methinks, resembles Cupid 's Dart;
As the silken Wound it gives,
With enliv'ning Beauty lives;
So the pointed Shafts of Love,
On my Heart, their Power prove;
And, as the vital Threads they pierce,
Animate a Spring of Verse,
Whilst the Flowers of Poetry
Arise, these brighter Flowers to see.

Yet, tho' thus like, both Darts appear,
In the main Point, they differ far;
For, but consider, their Employs —
This Creates, but that Destroys!