Classic Poem

Inspired with love and kindled by the flame,
Which from your eye and conversation came,
I proceed Versifier, and can't chuse,
Since you are both my Patron and my Muse
Whose fair example makes us know and do,
You make us poets, and you feed us too.
And though where ere you are is Helicon ,
Since all the Muses proudly wait upon
Your parts and person too; while we sit here
And like Baals Priests our flesh do cut and tear,
Yet, for our lives, can't make our baggage Muse
Lend us a lift, or one rich thought infuse,
Or be as much as midwife to a quibble,
But leave us to our selves with pangs to scribble
What, were we wise, we might well blush to view,
While we're invoking them, they're courting you.
Yet I conceive (and wont my notion smother)
You and your house contribute to each other
Such hills, such dales, such plains, such rocks, such springs,
And such a confluence of all such things
As raise and gratifie the Muses so,
That in one Night I was created PO —
That's half a Poet, I cant reach to ET,
Because I'm not a perfect Poet yet,
And I despair perfection to attain,
Unlesse I'm sent to school to you again.
Alas! Sir London is no place for verse,
Ingenious harmlesse thoughts, polite and terse,
Our Age admits not, we are wrap'd in smoke;
And Sin, and business, which the Muses choke
Those things in which true poesie takes pleasure,
We here do want; tranquillity and leasure.
Yet we have Wits, and some that for wits go,
Some real ones, and some that would be so,
But 'tis ill-natured wit, and such as still,
To th'subject or the object worketh ill
A Wit to cheat, to ruine, to betray,
Which renders uselesse, what we do or say
This wit will not bear verse, some things we have,
Who in their out-side do seem briske and brave,
And are as gaudy as old Kelles purse;
But full as Empty too. And here's our curse,
Few men discerne the difference 'twixt Wit
That's sterling, and that's not, but looks like it
Inrich us with your presence, make us know
How much the Nation does to Derby owe.
But if your businesse will not be withstood,
Do what you can, since you can't what you wou'd.
Those lovely sportings of your frolick Muse,
Wherewith you blest me, send me to peruse;
And out of gratitude, I'll send you mine,
They'l rub your vertues, and so make them shine
Your charity and patience will in them,
Find work t'acquit, what justice must condemn
And if you please, send one propitious line,
To dignifie these worthlesse toyes of mine
The Reader charm'd by yours, may be so bold
To read o're mine, which else he'ld not behold
And then in Spite of envy, pride, or lying,
Must say h'has met with something worth the buying.