Classic Poem

Nor shalt thou dearest Bowle oblivion take,
Since 'tis Apollo must a Poet make:
Thou every day dost circle like the Sun;
A course for natures reparation run;
Impart'st thy light to all, yet losest none;
Knowledge is th' Suns Child, true Philosophers stone.
Thou canst both trepane lungs, and open th' heart:
Whilst thou thy own dost to thy friend impart.
No dialect of nodds, thee Noddy speaks,
While th' hogshead fears a vent, lest all out Leaks.
Or knowledge at the best seems in a trance,
While plush is lin'd with sable ignorance.
Who'd not hav's brain be trepaned by thee,
Thy own heads open, while thy tongue is free.
Nor thy self only but thy Art mak'st friends,
While Artists discords in best musique ends.
Thou Paracelsus makest Galens friend;
While Chymicks now Botanicks do commend.
Mutual defects no longer they reveal;
Their own and others they conjoyned heal.
Yet thou from neither packhorse-like tak'st load,
Come life, come death, to keep both pace and road.
We owe thy errors, not to thee, but times,
We owe the virtues, far above their crimes.
He knows Bowl little, much him disapproves,
But knows him not at all who him not loves.