Classic Poem

What make I here? how ill this place befits
A Shrub, to sprout i'th' Lebanon of Wits?
'Mong such Caesarean Muses, whose pure strains
Out-soar the Clouds of Sublunary brains
I'ld quit the place, but that I know I may
Lament as much, though not so well as they
Thus Princely Eagles, when together th'are
Met at a Carcase, yeeld the Fly a share.
The Tongs and Jews-trump too, when they do come
In Consort, serve to fill a Vacuum,
And to compleat the sound, though artless Tone:
So he that can't sing Elegies, can groan.
Sad accident! how pityable's Man!
Billow'd about this restless Ocean;
Born to be wretched; who no sooner doth
Begin to live or love, but dies to both:
The Tennis-ball bandy'd 'tween Love and Fate,
Whom both do court, yet both do emulate.
Whom (like young Doctors) Women use to kill,
To try Experiments, and nurse their skill:
The Females Trophie. Or if Love can't do't,
To sink him, Fate contributeth her foot,
To crush i'th' Bud. Thus the great Hastings di'd;
The Young-mens Glory, and the Scholars Pride;
Envie's just Zenith —

But why should I lament his death? since he
Loseth not by't: but 'tis his LOVE and We;
She, we're undone; for both have lost that All,
That She could Love, or We could Vertue call:
One who by's Learning did demonstrate, that
There is a Plebs in Brain, as well as State;
And by his Studies labour'd to derive
Nobility from Worth, its Primitive:
Whom he that would mourn, as he ought to do,
Must be the Poet, and the Subject too
Now others Obsequies are my Thanksgiving;
Nor mourn I for the dead, but for the living.
Poor Hemistick! that but began to be
Inoculated, when she lost the Tree.
She that had flam'd her soul with Hymens fires,
Who with full Sayls, blown on with strong desires,
In reach of Hav'n, in sight of Safety, sinks;
Up to the lips in Nectar, yet not drinks
She that had past the Gulf of Love and Wo,
(Which none but we, that taste and feel, can know)
Now must love o'er again, and come to be
New disciplin'd in Cupids A, B, C
How vast a world has she to range about?
How long a search, ere she can finde one out,
Second to him? An equal we despair,
Like Pallas born o'th' brain of Jupiter
Riddle of Nature, of unfathom'd parts,
Whose Brain was the Synopsis of all Arts:
Whose Soul, whose Heart, whose Person justly can
Stile Lover, Scholar, and a Gentleman:
Whom loaden Nature did designe to die
Unwedded, being a Genealogie
Unto himself, and therefore thought it shame
To live in any Issue but his Fame.
This Sun in's Zenith, totters now, and falls;
And Death's the Vigil to Loves Festivals
Thus purest Lovers, when their Joy is near,
Are by't struck dead, as Cowards are by Fear.
Yet though he could not know what Joys wait on
The Bridal-Bed, but by privation;
Now woes the Angels, and intends to be
Wedded to them in their Virginity.
Yet are the Muses cross'd: for had this hit,
We'd joyn'd Yorks Wealth, to th' Lancaster of Wit.