Classic Poem

Goe, numbers, boldly passe, stay not for ayde
Of shifting rime, that easie flatterer
Whose witchcraft can the ruder eares beguile.
Let your smooth feete, enur'd to purer arte,
True measures tread. What if your pace be slow,
And hops not like the Grecian elegies?
It is yet gracefull, and well fits the state
Of words ill-breathed, and not shap't to runne.
Goe then, but slowly, till your steps be firme;
Tell them that pitty or perversely skorne
Poore English Poesie as the slave to rime,
You are those loftie numbers that revive
Triumphs of Princes, and sterne tragedies:
And learne henceforth t' attend those happy sprights
Whose bounding fury height and waight affects.
Assist their labour, and sit close to them,
Never to part away till for desert
Their browes with great Apollos bayes are hid.
He first taught number, and true harmonye;
Nor is the lawrell his for rime bequeath'd.
Call him with numerous accents paisd by arte,
He'le turne his glory from the sunny clymes,
The North-bred wits alone to patronise.
Let France their Bartas , Italy Tasso prayse;
Phaebus shuns none, but in their flight from him.