Classic Poem

TO Sir A STON C OKAYNE

Sir , Coming home into this frozen Clime,
Grown cold, and almost senslesse, as my rythme,
I found, that Winters bold, impetuous rage
Prevented time, and antidated age,
For, in my veins did nought but crystall dwell,
Each hair was frozen to an iceicle.
My flesh was marble, so that, as I went,
I did appear a walking Monument.
'T might have been judg'd, rather than marble, flint,
Had there been any spark of fier in't.
My Mother looking back (to bid Good night )
Was metamorphos'd, like the Sodomite.
Like Sinon's horse, our horses were become;
And, since they could not go, they slided home.
The hills were hard to such a Qualitie,
So beyond Reason in Philosophie;
If Pegasus had kickt at one of those,
Homers Odysse's had been writ in prose.
These are strange stories, Sir, to you, who sweat
Under the warm Suns comfortable heat:
Whose happy Seat of Pooley farre outvies
The fabled pleasures of blest Paradise.
Whose Canaan fills your hous with wine, and oyl,
Till 't crack with burdens of a fruitfull soil.
Which hous, if it were plac't above the sphear,
Would be a Palace fit for Jupiter.
The humble chappell for religious Rites,
The inner rooms for honest, free delights,
And Providence, that these miscarrie, loth,
Has plac't the Tower a centinell to both:
So that there's nothing wanting to improve
Either your pietie, or peace, or love.
Without, you have the pleasure of the woods,
Fair plains, sweet medows, and transparent flouds,
With all that's good and excellent, beside
The tempting apples by Euphrates' side.
But, that, which does above all these aspire,
Is Delphos, brought from Greece to Warwickshire.
But oh! ungodly Hodge! that valu'd not
The saving juice o' th' aenigmaticke pot.
Whose charming virtue made mee to forget
T' enquire of Fate, else I had stay'd there yet,
Nor had I then once dar'd to venture on
The cutting ayr of this our Freezland-zone.

But, once again, Dear Sir, I mean to come,
And learn to thank, as to be troublesome.