Classic Poem

When dearest Friend, thy verse doth re-inspire
Loves pale decaying Torch with brighter fire,
Whilst every where thou dost dilate thy flame,
And to the World spread thy Odelias Name,
The Justice of all Ages must remit
To Her the Prize of Beauty, Thee of Wit.
Then like some skilful Artist, that to wonder
Framing a peece, displeas'd, takes it asunder,
Thou Beauty dost depose, her Charms deny,
And all the mystick chains of Love untie;
Thus thy diviner Muse a power 'bove Fate
May boast, that can both make and uncreate .
Next thou call'st back to life that Love-sick Boy,
To the kinde-hearted Nymphs lesse fair then coy,
Who, by reflex Beams burnt with vain desire,
Did Phaenix-like, in his own flames expire:
But should he view his shadow drawn by thee,
He with himself once more in love would be.
Eccho (who though she words pursue, her hast
Can only overtake and stop the last)
Shall her first Speech and human veil obtain
To sing thy softer numbers o're again.
Thus into dying Poetry, thy Muse
Doth full perfection and new life infuse.
Each line deserves a Laurel, and thy praise
Asks not a Garland, but a Grove of Bayes:
Nor can ours raise thy lasting Trophies higher,
Who only reach at merit to admire.
But I must chide thee Friend, how canst thou be
A Patron, yet a Foe to Poetrie?
For while thou dost this Age to Verse restore,
Thou dost deprive the next of owning more;
And hast so far even future Aims surpast,
That none dare write; Thus being first and last,
All, their abortive Muses will suppresse,
And Poetry by this increase grow lesse.