Classic Poem

Falsely to prayse, is easie: but an Art
Which neyther fits my mind nor thy desert.
So differing I would from a Poet be.
As to speake truth, and yet I would prayse thee.
Th'hast done a good worke, well: as one that drawes
The Copy of a Piece, wherein the Lawes
Of Art are all confin'd, yet in that draught
Thou rather add'st to them, then they lose ought.
'Tis rare: for Bookes translated doe, like Silke
Twice dy'de, lose glosse; or, like remov'd Trees, welke.
Each Language hath a selfe-propriety,
Wherein the Parent, as his phantasy
Best likes his Issue, may apparell it:
But to provide a various dresse, and fit
That to anothers Childe, commends thy skill:
Which, changing colour, keep'st the beauty still.
When I would read for pleasure , or to spy
Wisdome , with Worth , and State-Philosophy ,
Ile court thy ARGENIS : who by thy paine
Is naturaliz'd: and doth in English reigne:
Under whose sway, this wonder shall appeare:
The World (which is at best but one lowd Jarre)
Shall be aton'd: and now all shall agree,
To thinke this work well done, and so praise thee.