Classic Poem

Be pleas'd, great Lord, when underneath the shades
Of your delightful Bramshill, where the spring
Her flowers for gentle blasts with Zephyr trades,
Once more to hear a silly shepherd sing.
Yours be the pleasure, mine the sonneting:
Ev'n that hath his delight; nor shall I need
To seek applause amongst the common store.
It is enough if this mine oaten reed
Please but the ear it should; I ask no more:
Nor shall those rural notes which heretofore
Your true attention grac'd and wing'd for fame
Imperfect lie; oblivion shall not gain
Ought on your worth, but sung shall be your name
So long as England yields or song or swain.
Free are my lines, though dress'd in lowly state,
And scorn to flatter but the men I hate.