Classic Poem

So sat the muses on the banks of Thames,
And pleas'd to sing our heavenly Spenser's wit,
Inspiring almost trees with pow'rful flames,
As Caelia when she sings what I have writ:
Methinks there is a spirit more divine,
An elegance more rare when ought is sung
By her sweet voice, in every verse of mine,
Than I conceive by any other tongue:
So a musician sets what some one plays
With better relish, sweeter stroke, than he
That first compos'd; nay, oft the maker weighs
If what he hears, his own, or other's be.
Such are my lines: the highest, best of choice,
Become more gracious by her sweetest voice.