Classic Poem

Momus, with venom'd tooth, why wouldst thou teare
Our Muses, and turne Mores those virgines faire?
Nor citizen, nor manners doe they brand,
Nor of the town ought, saue where it doth stand.
I curst, I doe confesse, some nastye mire,
And lake, deem'd poison by all Peane's quire:
Endwellares safe, I hartlie wisht the towne
Turned in one rock, and still wish 't o'rethrowne.
Elsewhere a nobler town might raised bee,
For skie, aire, sweeter, and in boundes more free;
The noble towne might elsewhere haue been raised,
In place more faire, for skye, aire, freedom prais'd;
Yet there to dwell no shame is, nor be borne;
Pearles dwell in oysteres, roses grow on thorne.
His Rome when Cæsar purposed to make new,
Himselfe straight fire-brandes on their rafteres threw.
If in these wishes ought deserueth blame,
A Caledonian king first wisht the same.
My Muse, perhaps, too bold is, but farre farre
From tartnesse brest, from gall her paperes are.