Abraham on Anacreon

“All thy verse is softer far Than the downy feathers are Of my wings, or of my arrows, Of my mother's doves or sparrows. Sweet as lovers' freshest kisses, Or their riper following blisses, Graceful, cleanly, smooth, and round, All with Venus girdle bound.”

“It grieves me when I see what fate Does on the best of mankind wait. Poets or lovers let them be, 'Tis neither love nor poesy Can arm against death's smallest dart The poet's head, or lover's heart. For when their life in its decline Touches th' inevitable line, All the world's mortal to 'em then, And wine is aconite to men. Nay, in death's hand the grape-stone proves Fatal as thunder is in Jove's.”