Classic Poem

By what bold passion am I rudely led,
Like Fame's too curious and officious Spie,
Where I these Rolls in her dark Closet read,
Where Worthies wrapp'd in Time's disguises lie?

Why should we now their shady Curtains draw,
Who by a wise retirement hence are freed,
And gone to Lands exempt from Nature's Law,
Where Love no more can mourn, nor valor bleed?

Why to this stormy world from their long rest,
Are these recall'd to be again displeas'd,
Where during Nature's reign we are opprest,
Till we by Death's high priviledge are eas'd?

Is it to boast that Verse has Chymick pow'r,
And that its rage (which is productive heat)
Can these revive, as Chymists raise a Flow'r,
Whose scatter'd parts their Glass presents compleat?

Though in these Worthies gone, valor and love
Did chastly as in sacred Temples meet,
Such reviv'd Patterns us no more improve,
Than Flow'rs so rais'd by Chymists make us sweet,

Yet when the souls disease we desp'rate finde,
Poets the old renown'd Physitians are,
Who for the sickly habits of the mind,
Examples as the ancient cure prepare.

And bravely then Physitians honor gain,
When to the World diseases cureless seem,
And they (in Science valiant) ne'er refrain
Art's ware with Nature, till they life redeem.

But Poets their accustom'd task have long
Forborn, (who for Examples did disperse
The Heroes vertues in Heroick Song)
And now think vertue sick, past cure of verse.

Yet to this desp'rate cure I will proceed,
Such patterns shew as shall not fail to move;
Shall teach the valiant patience when they bleed,
And hapless Lovers constancy in Love.