Classic Poem

The times are swoll'n so big with nicer wits,
That nought sounds good but what Opinion strikes
Censure with Judgment seld together sits;
And now the man more than the matter likes.

The great rewardress of a poet's pen,
Fame, is by those so clogg'd she seldom flies;
The Muses sitting on the graves of men,
Singing that Virtue lives and never dies,

Are chas'd away by the malignant tongues
Of such, by whom Detraction is ador'd:
Hence grows the want of ever-living songs,
With which our isle was whilom bravely stor'd.

If such a basilisk dart down his eye
(Impoison'd with the dregs of utmost hate),
To kill the first blooms of my poesy,
It is his worst, and makes me fortunate.
Kind wits I vail to, but to fools precise
I am as confident as they are nice.