Classic Poem

To my highly vallued Mr George Chapman, Father of our English Poets.

I KNOW thee not (good George) but by thy pen;
For which I make thee with the rarest men
And in that ranke I put thee in the front,
Especially of poets of account,
Who art the treasurer of that company;
But in thy hand too little coyne doth lye:
For of all artes that now in London are,
Poets gett least in vttering of their ware.
But thou hast in thy head and hart and hand,
Treasures of arte that treasure can command.
Ah, would they could; then should thy wealth and witt
Bee equall and a lofty fortune fitt.
But George, thou wert accurst, and so was I
To bee of that most blessed company;
For if they most are blest that most are crost,
Then poets (I am sure) are blessed most
Yet wee with rime and reason trimme the times
Though they giue little reason for our rimes.
The reason is (els error blinds my witts)
They reason want to do what honor fitts.
But let them do as please them, wee must do
What Phaebus (sire of arte) moues nature to.