Classic Poem

And now perhaps You'll thinke a booke more fit,
That, like your Infants Soule, shewes nothing writ.
Yet deeme not all our heart spread in this Noise;
The booke would swell, should we but print blanke Ioyes:
For we have some that only can rehearse
In Prose, whom Age, and Christmas weanes from verse:
All cannot enter these Poetique lists;
This Swath's above the Fillets of some Priests;
And You're so wholly happy, that our Wreath
Must proclaime Blessings only, not Bequeath.