Classic Poem

To the Translation of Palingen.

The labour sweet that I sustained in thee,
O Palingen, when I took pen in hand,
Doth grieve me now, as oft as I thee see
But half hewed out, before mine eyes to stand;
For I must needs (no help) a while go toil
In studies that no kind of muse delight,
And put my plough in gross untilled soil,
And labour thus with overwearied sprite;
But if that God do grant me greater years
And take me not from hence before my time,
The Muses nine, the pleasant singing feres,
Shall so enflame my mind with lust to rhyme
That Palingen, I will not leave thee so,
But finish thee according to my mind.
And if it be my chance away to go,
Let some thee end, that here remain behind.