Classic Poem

Soon as the dismal News came down,
And spread it self about the Town,
I in a trice, with heavy Soul,
As Snails their Horns, drew in my Pole,
Shut Shop, and in a Passion swore,
I'd never use my Scissars more:
Since Lachesis so rash had been,
To cut the Throat of gracious Queen;
But I designing more
Than ever Barber did before,
Resolv'd on the too sad Occasion
To exercise a strange Vocation,
Rhyme, the great Business of the Nation.
I thought it errant Shame to fetter
True English Sense in Foreign Metre:
For none do bury, I conjecture,
Folks in Outlandish Manufacture:
Not, but that I my Grief cou'd tell
In any other Tongue as well.
Whether in Turkish or Arabick ,
In Ethiopick , or Malabrick ,
In Cambro-Britanick or Togray ,
Or Lingua Balaam 's Ass did bray;
But why shou'd I my Readers vex
With these Barbarian Dialects.
In short already I have ended,
And done what I first intended,
'Tis uncorrected, unamended.
No Tutor did this Work peruse,
Nor Money hir'd a Hackney Muse ,
Tho' that's the Fashion of the Town,
This I protest is all my own.