Classic Poem

There are no sureties (good friend) Will be taken
For workes that vulgar-good-name hath forsaken:
A Poeme and a play too! why tis like
A scholler that's a Poet: their names strike
Their pestilence inward, when they take the aire;
And kill out right: one cannot both fates beare.
But, as a Poet thats no scholler, makes
Vulgarity his whiffler, and so takes
Passage with ease, & state through both sides prease
Of Pageant seers: or as schollers please
That are no Poets; more then Poets learnd;
Since their art solely, is by soules discernd;
The others fals within the common sence
And sheds (like common light) her influence:
So, were your play no Poeme, but a thing
That euery Cobler to his patch might sing:
A rout of nifles (like the multitude)
With no one limme of any art indude:
Like would to like, and praise you: but because,
Your poeme onely hath by vs applause,
Renews the golden world; and holds through all
The holy lawes of homely pastorall;
Where flowers, and founts, and Nimphs, & semi-Gods,
And all the Graces finde their old abods:
Where forrests flourish but in endlesse verse;
And meddowes, nothing fit for purchasers:
This Iron age that eates it selfe, will neuer
Bite at your golden world; that others, euer
Lou'd as it selfe: then like your Booke do you
Liue in ould peace: and that for praise allow.