Classic Poem

Plutus . Good morrow to the morn next to my gold:
First bright Apollo , I salute thy rayes,
And next the earth, Minerva's sacred land,
Truly Cecropian soile, Athenian city.
How my soule blushes, and with grief remembers
My miserable blindnesse! wretched Plutus ,
Whose hood-winkt ignorance made thy guilty feet
Stumble into the company of Rascals,
Informers, Sequestrators, Pettifoggers,
Grave Coxcombs, Sycophants and unconscionable Coridons,
And Citizens whose fals Conscience weigh'd too light
In their own scales, claim'd by a principall Charter
The Cornucopia proper to themselves.
When good just men, such as did venture lives
For Countries safety and the Nations honour,
Were paid with their own wounds, and made those scars
Which were accounted once the marks of honour,
The miserable priviledge of begging,
Scarce to have lodging in an Hospital.
And those whose labors suffer nightly throes
To give their teeming brains deliverance
To enrich the land with learned merchandise
The sacred Traffique of the soule, rich wisedome:
Starve in their studies, and like moathes devoure
The very leaves they read, scorn'd of the Vulgar,
Nay, of the better sort too many times,
As if their knowledge were but learned wickednesse,
And every Smug could preach aswell as they:
Nay, as if men were worse for Academies.
But all shall be amended. I could tell
A tale of horrour, and unmask foule actions;
Black as the night they were committed in.
I could unfold a Lerna , and with proofs
As clear as this deer light, could testifie
How I unwilling kept them company.