Classic Poem

Pa rdon my teares, if they be too too free,
And if thou canst not weepe. I 'le pardon thee
Dull Stoick; if thou laugh to heare his death,
I 'le weep, that thou wert born to spend that breath
Thou dry-braind Portick, whose Athenian brest
(Transcending passion) never was opprest
With griefe; ô had your flinty Sect but lost
So rare a prize, as we lament and boast,
Your hearts had crost your Tenet, and disburst
As many drops as we have done, or burst;
No marvell that your marble braines could crosse
Her lawes, that never gave you such a losse.