Classic Poem

HOW cruelly these catives do conspire;
What loathsome love breeds such a baleful band,
Betwixt the cankred king of Creta land,
That melancholy, old, and angry sire,
And him who wont to quench debate and ire,
Amongst the Romans , when his ports were clos'd,
But now his double face is still dispos'd,
With Saturns help, to freeze us at the fire.
The earth o're-covered with a sheet of snow,
Refuses food to fowl, to bird and beast;
The chilling cold letts every thing to grow,
And surfeits cattel with a starving feast.
Curs'd be that love, and mought continue short
That kills all creatures and doth spoil our sport.
When Britains monarch, in true greatness great,
His councils counsel, did things past unfold,
He (eminent in knowledge as in state)
What might occur oraculously told;
And when far rais'd from this terrestrial round,
He numbrous notes with measured fury frames,
Each accent weigh'd, no jarr in sense, or sound,
He Phaebus seems, his lines Castalian streams,
This worth (though much we owe) doth more extort;
All honor should, but it constrains to love,
While ravished still above the vulgar sort
He prince, or poet, more than man doth prove:
But all his due who can afford him then,
A god of poets, and a king of men.

This day, design'd to spoil the world of peace,
And accessory to so foul a crime,
Why should it rest in the records of time,
Since stain'd by treason forfeiting the place.
O! but those err who would it odious make;
This day from danger Britain's monarch sav'd,
That day when first the mischief was conceiv'd;
Let it accurst still clad with clouds look black.
Then happy day, to which by heavens decree
(A consecrated) festual pomp is due;
Long may thy saint (a living martyr) view,
All hearts for love of him to honour thee.
More length we wish, but what thou wantst of light
Shall be by fire extorted from the NIGHT .