Classic Poem

From whence, vile Poet, did'st thou gleane the witt
And words for such a vicious Poem fit?
Where could'st thou paper find was not too white;
Or Inck, that could be black enough to write?
What servile Divell tempted thee to bee
A Flatterer of thine owne Slavery?
To kisse thy Bondage, and extall the deed,
Att once that made thy Prince and Cuntry bleed?
I wonder much thy false heart did not dread,
And shame to write, what all men blush to read;
Thus with a base ingratitude to reare
Trophies unto thy Masters Murtherer?
Whoe call'd thee Coward ( — ) much mistooke
The Characters of thy pedantick Looke;
Thou hast at once abus'd thy selfe, and us;
Hee's stout that dares flatter a Tyranne thus.
Put up thy pen, and incke, muzzle thy muse
Adulterate Hagg fitt for a common stewes,
No good man's library; writt thou hast
Treason in Rithme, has all thy works defac't:
Such is thy fallt, that when I think to find
A punishment of the severest kind
For thy offence, my Malice cannot name
A greater; than, once to comitt the same.
Where was thy reason then, when thou began
To write against the sense of god, and man?
Within thy guilty brest dispaire tooke place,
Thou would'st dispayring dye in spite of grace.
Att once th' art Judge, and Malefactor showne,
Each sentence in thy Poem is thyne owne.
Then, what thou hast pronounc't go execute,
Hang up thy selfe, and say, I bad thee doo 't:
Feare not thy memory, that cannot dye,
This Panegerick is thy Elegie,
Which shalbe when, or wheresoever read,
A Liveing Poem to upbrayd thee dead.