Classic Poem

The Reapers that with whetted sickles stand,
Gathering the falling ears i' th' other hand;
Though they endure the scorching summers heat,
Have yet some wages to allay their sweat:
The Lopper that doth fell the sturdy Oak
Labours, yet has good pay for every stroke.
The Plowman is rewarded: only we
That sing, are paid with our own melody.
Rich churls have learn't to praise us, and admire,
But have not learn't to think us worth the hire.
So toyling Ants perchance delight to hear
The summer musique of the Grasshopper,
But after rather let him starve with pain,
Than spare him from their store one single grain.
As when great Junos beauteous Bird displaies
Her starry tail, the boyes doe run and gaze
At her proud train; so look they now adaies
On Poets; and doe think if they but praise,
Or pardon what we sing, enough they doe:
Aye, and 'tis well if they doe so much too.
My rage is swell'd so high I cannot speak it,
Had I Pan's pipe, or thine I now should break it!
Let moles delight in Earth; Swine dunghills rake;
Crows prey on Carrion; Frogs a pleasure take
In slimy pools; And Niggards wealth admire;
But we, whose souls are made of purer fire,
Have other aimes: Who songs for gain hath made,
Has of a liberall Science fram'd a Trade.
Hark how the Nightingale in yonder tree,
Hid in the boughes, warbles melodiously
Her various musique forth, while the whole Quire
Of other birds flock round, and all admire!
But who rewards her? will the ravenous Kite
Part with her prey, to pay for her delight?
Or will the foolish, painted, prattling Jay
Now turn'd a hearer, to requite her play
Lend her a straw? or any of the rest
Fetch her a feather when she builds her nest?
Yet sings she ne'er the lesse, till every den
Doe catch at her last notes: And shall I then
His fortunes Damon , 'bove my own commend,
Who can more cheese into the market send?
Clowns for posterity may cark and care,
That cannot out-live death but in an Heire:
By more than wealth we propagate our Names,
That trust not to successions, but our Fames.
Let hide-bound churls yoak the laborious Oxe,
Milk hundred goats, and shear a thousand flocks;
Plant gainfull Orchards, and in silver shine;
Thou of all fruits should'st only prune the Vine:
Whose fruit being tasted, might erect thy brain
To reach some ravishing, high, and lofty strain,
The double birth of Bacchus to expresse,
First in the grape, the second in the presse.
And therefore tell me boy, what is 't can move
Thy mind, once fixed on the Muses Love?
When I contented liv'd by Cam's fair streams,
Without desire to see the prouder Thames ,
I had no flock to care for, but could sit
Under a willow covert, and repeat
Those deep and learned layes, on every part
Grounded on judgment, subtilty, and Art,
That the great Tutor to the greatest King,
The shepherd of Stagira , us'd to sing:
The shepherd of Stagira , that unfolds
All natures closet, shows what e'er it holds;
The matter, form, sense, motion, place, and measure
Of every thing contain'd in her vast treasure.
How Elements doe change; What is the cause
Of Generation; what the Rule, and Laws
The Orbs doe move by; Censures every starre,
Why this is fixt, and that irregular;
Knows all the Heavens, as if he had been there,
And help't each Angell turn about her spheare.
The thirsty pilgrim travelling by land,
When the fierce Dog-starre doth the day command,
Half chok't with dust, parch't with the sultry heat;
Tir'd with his journey, and o'ercome with sweat,
Finding a gentle spring, at her cool brink
Doth not with more delight sit down and drink,
Than I record his songs; we see a cloud,
And fearing to be wet, doe run and shroud
Under a bush; when he would sit and tell
The cause that made her misty wombe to swell;
Why it sometimes in drops of rain doth flow,
Sometimes dissolves her self in flakes of snow:
Nor gaz'd he at a Comet, but would frame
A reason why it wore a beard of flame.
Ah Tityrus , I would with all my heart,
Even with the best of my carv'd mazers part,
To hear him as he us'd divinely shew,
What 'tis that paints the divers-colour'd bow:
Whence Thunders are discharg'd, whence the winds stray,
What foot through heaven hath worn the milky way!