Classic Poem

What need hast thou of me, or of my muse,
Whose actions so themselves do celebrate?
Which should thy country's love to speak refuse,
Her foes enough would fame thee in their hate.
'Tofore, great men were glad of poets: now,
I, not the worst, am covetous of thee.
Yet dare not, to my thought, least hope allow
Of adding to thy fame; thine may to me,
When in my book, men read but Cecil's name,
And what I write thereof find far, and free
From servile flattery (common poets' shame)
As thou stand'st dear of the necessity.