Classic Poem

That wise Philosopher, who had design'd
To life the various passions of the Minde,
Did wrong'd Medea's Jealousie prefer
To entertain the Roman Theater;
Both to instruct the Soul, and please the Sight,
At once begetting Horrour and delight.
This cruelty thou dost once more expresse
Though in a strange, no lesse becoming dress;
And her revenge hast rob'd of half its pride,
To see it self thus by it self outvi'd,
That boldest Ages past may say, our times
Can speak, as well as act their highest Crimes.
Nor was't enough to do his Scene this right,
But what thou gav'st to us, with equal light
Thou wouldst bestow on him, nor wert more just
Unto the Authors work, then to his Dust;
Thou dost make good his title, aid his Claim,
Both vindicate his Poem and his Name,
So shar'st a double wreath; for all that we
Unto the Poet owe, he owes to thee.
Though change of tongues stoln praise to som afford,
Thy Version hath not borrow'd but restor'd.