Classic Poem

And why not I, as hee
That 's greatest, if as free?
 (In sundry strains that strive,
Since there so many be)
 Th' old Lyrick kind revive?

I will, yea, and I may;
Who shall oppose my way?
 For what is he alone,
That of himselfe can say,
 Hee's Heire of Helicon ?

Apollo , and the Nine,
Forbid no Man their Shrine,
 That commeth with hands pure;
Else be they so divine,
 They will not him indure.

For they be such coy Things,
That they care not for Kings,
 And dare let them know it;
Nor may he touch their Springs,
 That is not borne a Poet.

The Phocean it did prove,
Whom when foule Lust did move,
 Those Mayds unchast to make,
Fell, as with them he strove,
 His Neck and justly brake.

That instrument ne'er heard,
Strooke by the skilfull Bard,
 It strongly to awake;
But it th' infernalls scar'd,
 And made Olympus quake.

As those Prophetike strings
Whose sounds with fiery Wings,
 Drave Fiends from their abode,
Touch'd by the best of Kings,
 That sang the holy Ode.

So his, which Women slew,
And it int' Hebrus threw,
 Such sounds yet forth it sent,
That Bacchus to weepe that drew,
 As downe the Streame it went.

The Druides imbrew'd
With Gore, on Altars rude
 With Sacrifices crown'd,
In hollow Woods bedew'd,
 Ador'd the Trembling sound.

Though wee be All to seeke,
Of P INDAR that Great Greeke ,
 To Finger it aright,
The Soule with power to strike,
 His hand retayn'd such Might.

Or him that Rome did grace
Whose Ayres we all imbrace,
 That scarcely found his Peere,
Nor giveth P HOEBUS place,
 For Strokes divinely cleere.

The Irish I admire,
And still cleave to that Lyre,
 As our Musike's Mother,
And thinke, till I expire,
 Apollo 's such another.

To those that with despight
Shall terme these Numbers slight,
 Tell them their Judgement 's blind,
Much erring from the right,
 It is a Noble kind.

Nor is't the Verse doth make,
That giveth, or doth take,
 'Tis possible to clyme,
To kindle, or to slake,
 Although in S KELTON 's Ryme.