Classic Poem

'Tis hard, to speake things common, properly:
And thou maist better bring a Rhapsody
Of Homers forth in acts, then of thine owne
First publish things unspoken, and unknowne.
Yet, common matter thou thine owne maist make,
If thou the vile, broad-troden ring forsake.
For, being a Poet, thou maist feigne, create,
Not care, as thou wouldst faithfully translate,
To render word for word: nor with thy sleight
Of imitation, leape into a streight
From whence thy modesty, or Poims Law
Forbids thee forth againe thy foot to draw.
Nor so begin, as did that Circler, late,
I sing a noble Warre, and Priams fate.
What doth this promiser, such great gaping worth
Afford? The Mountains travail'd, and brought forth
A trifling Mouse! O, how much better this,
Who nought assaies, unaptly, or amisse?
Speake to me, Muse, the man, who, after Troy was sackt,
Saw many townes, and men, and could their manners tract.
Hee thinks not how to give you smoak from light,
But light from smoak, [. . .]