Classic Poem

Drive forth thy Flocke, young Pastor, to that Plaine,
Where our old Shepheards wont their flocks to feed;
To those cleare walkes, where many a skilfull Swaine
To'ards the calmeev'ning, tun'd his pleasant Reede.
Those, to the Muses once so sacred, Downes,
As no rude foote might there presume to stand:
(Now made the way of the unworthiest Clownes,
Dig'd and plow'd up with each unhallowed hand)
If possible thou canst, redeeme those places,
Where, by the brim of many a silver Spring,
The learned Maydens, and delightfull Graces
Often have sate to heare our Shepheards sing:
Where on those Pines the neighb'ring Groves among,
(Now utterly neglected in these dayes)
Our Garlands, Pipes, and Cornamutes were hong
The monuments of our deserved praise.
So may thy Sheepe like, so thy Lambes increase,
And from the Wolfe feede ever safe and free!
So maist thou thrive, among the learned prease,
As thou, young Shepheard, art belov'd of mee!