Classic Poem

Envy, why twitt'st thou me my time 's spent ill,
Or call'st my verse fruits of an idle quill?
Or that, unlike the line from whence I sprung,
War's dusty honours I pursue not young?
Or that I study not the tedious laws,
And prostitute my voice in every cause?
Thy scope is mortal; mine, eternal fame,
Which through the world shall ever chant my name!
Homer will live whilst Tenedos stands, and Ide,
Or to the sea fleet Simois doth slide:
And so shall Hesiod too, while vines do bear,
Or crooked sickles crop the ripened ear.
Callimachus, though in invention low,
Shall still be sung, since he in art doth flow.
No loss shall come to Sophocles' proud vein:
With sun and moon Aratus shall remain.
Ennius, though rude, and Accius' high-reared strain,
A fresh applause in every age shall gain.
Of Varro's name what ear shall not be told?
Of Jason's Argo and the fleece of gold?
Then shall Lucretius' lofty numbers die
When earth and seas in fire and flames shall fry.
Tityrus, Tillage, Æney shall be read
Whilst Rome of all the conquered world is head.
Till Cupid's fires be out and his bow broken,
Thy verses neat Tibullus shall be spoken.
Our Gallus shall be known from East to West;
So shall Lycoris whom he now loves best.
The suffering ploughshare or the flint may wear;
But heavenly poesy no death can fear.
Kings shall give place to it, and kingly shows,
The banks o'er which gold-bearing Tagus flows.
Kneel hinds to trash: me let bright Phaebus swell
With cups full-flowing from the Muses' well!
The frost-drad myrtle shall impale my head,
And of sad lovers I 'll be often read!
Envy the living not the dead doth bite,
For after death all men receive their right.
Then when this body falls in funeral fire,
My name shall live and my best part aspire.