Classic Poem

Ter circum Iliacos raptaverat Hectora muros

Even soe dead Hector thrice was triumph'd on
The Walls of Troy , thrice slaine when fate had done:
So did the barbarous Greekes before their Hoast
Torment his ashes, and profane his ghoast:
As Henryes vault, his Peace , his Sacred Hearse ,
Are torne and batter'd by thine Anniverse.
Was't not enough Nature and strength were foes,
But thou must yearly murther him in Prose?
Or do'st thou thinke thy rauing phrase can make
A lowder Eccho then the Almanake?
Trust mee, November doth more ghastly looke
In Dade and Hoptons pennyworth, then thy booke:
And sadder record their sixt figure beares,
Then thy false-printed and ambitious teares.
For were it not for Christmas, which is nigh,
When spice, fruit, eaten, and digested pye,
Call for wast paper; noe man could make shift
How to imploy thy writings to his thrift.
Wherefore forbeare for pitty, or for shame,
And let some richer pen redeeme his fame
From rottennesse. Thou leaue him captive; since
Soe vile a Price ne're ransom'd such a Prince.