Classic Poem

Beautie, I know, is good, and bloud is more;
Riches thought most: But, Madame , thinke what store
The world hath seene, which all these had in trust,
And now lye lost in their forgotten dust.
It is the Muse , alone, can raise to heaven,
And, at her strong armes end, hold up, and even,
The soules, shee loves. Those other glorious notes,
Inscrib'd in touch or marble, or the cotes
Painted, or carv'd upon our great-mens tombs,
Or in their windowes; doe but prove the wombs,
That bred them, graves: when they were borne, they di'd,
That had no Muse to make their fame abide.
How many equall with the Argive Queene,
Have beautie knowne, yet none so famous seene?
A CHILLES was not first, that valiant was,
Or, in an armies head, that, lockt in brasse,
Gave killing strokes. There were brave men, before
A JAX , or I DOMEN , or all the store,
That Homer brought to Troy ; yet none so live:
Because they lack'd the sacred pen, could give
Like life unto 'hem. Who heav'd H ERCULES
Unto the starres? or the Tyndarides ?
Who placed J ASONS A RGO in the skie?
Or set bright A RIADNES crown so high?
Who made a lampe of B ERENICES hayre?
Or lifted C ASSIOPEA in her chayre?
But onely Poets , rapt with rage divine?
And such, or my hopes faile, shall make you shine.