Classic Poem

Sweete, sacred hill! on whose fair brow
My Saviour sate, shall I allow
Language to love
And Idolize some shade, or grove,
Neglecting thee? such ill-plac'd wit,
Conceit, or call it what you please
Is the braines fit,
And meere disease;

2.

Cotswold , and Coopers both have met
With learned swaines, and Eccho yet
Their pipes, and wit;
But thou sleep'st in a deepe neglect
Untouch'd by any; And what need
The sheep bleat thee a silly Lay
That heard'st both reed
And sheepward play?

3.

Yet, if Poets mind thee well
They shall find thou art their hill,
And fountaine too,
Their Lord with thee had most to doe;
He wept once, walkt whole nights on thee,
And from thence (his suff'rings ended,)
Unto glorie
Was attended;

4.

Being there, this spacious ball
Is but his narrow footstoole all,
And what we thinke
Unsearchable, now with one winke
He doth comprise; But in this aire
When he did stay to beare our Ill
And sinne, this Hill
Was then his Chaire.