Classic Poem

The Writer to his Booke.
Whether thus hasts my little booke so fast?
To Paules Churchyard. What? in those cels to stand,
With one leafe like a riders cloke put up
To catch a termer? or lye mustie there
With rimes a terme set out, or two before?
Some will redeeme me. Fewe. Yes, reade me too.
Fewer. Nay love me. Now thou dot'st, I see.
Will not our English Athens arte defend?
Perhaps. Will lofty courtly wits not ayme
Still at perfection? If I graunt? I flye.
Whether? To Pawles. Alas, poore Booke, I rue
Thy rash selfe-love; goe, spread thy pap'ry wings:
Thy lightnes can not helpe, or hurt my fame.