Classic Poem

LUCY, you brightnesse of our spheare, who are
Life of the Muses day, their morning-starre!
If workes (not th'authors) their owne grace should looke,
Whose poemes would not wish to be your booke?
But these, desir'd by you, the makers ends
Crowne with their owne. Rare poemes aske rare friends.
Yet, Satyres, since the most of mankind bee
Their un-avoided subject, fewest see:
For none ere tooke that pleasure in sinnes sense,
But, when they heard it tax'd, tooke more offence.
Then, they, that living where the matter is bred,
Dare for these poemes, yet, both aske, and read,
And like them too; must needfully, though few,
Be of the best: and 'mongst those, best are you.
LUCY, you brightnesse of our spheare, who are
The Muses evening, as their morning-starre.