Classic Poem

This to thy memory I'm bound to do,
(Ingenius Brome ) though not related to
Thy parts or person; kindled by that flame,
Which glows in thy example and fair name;
I must pronounce these issues of thy brain,
Of all th'Indulgers of the Comick strain
Deserve applause; and they that do not see
A worth in both, know neither them nor thee.
Yet I am no Wit-rampant, none of them
That think they've pow'r to quit, or to condemn
What ere is writ, and boldly say there's none
True sterling Wit, but what looks like their own
And judge no person comely, if his head
Be black or brown, their standard-heads being red
These would be Quorum-Wits, and by their own
Commission, do invade Apollo's throne,
Where Chair-men-like they rant, condemn, deride
The Novice Wit, that must by them be tri'd
With Questions intricate, yet catching though,
Such as themselves can't answer, namely, who
First made them Wits? How they the grace obtain'd
Of Poetry? By whom they were ordain'd?
And at what Club? and by whose lines they've bin
Converted Poets, from that odious sin
Of Prose and thriving? whether Poetry
Be b'acquistion or extraduce?
Such Questions and Commands not worth a straw,
'Cause done without Authority or Law
Sic volo's all the pow'r, by which they sit,
And th'only Rule by which they judge of Wit.
For there's no other Standard but Opinion;
Which varies still, 'cause fancy has dominion
So Martin Parker's laurell'd by some men,
With as much boldness as the wise do Ben
Nor can we help it, since among the wits
There is a Vulgus , whose ambition gets
To be o'th' Classis , and presumes to be
At first sight, Judges of all Poetry.
'Gainst whom there is no armour, but to know,
What they call good, or bad, they think is so
Thus that fam'd Lombard hich was writ
To put the Reader to th' expense of wit
And skill to judge of, and to understand,
Can't censure scape, nor can applause command,
But tamely must its self, and fate submit
To the coy Readers prejudice, or wit.
Who doth with equal eagerness contend,
Some to cry down, and others to commend.
So easie 'tis to judg, so hard to do,
There's so much frailty, yet such prying too:
That who their Poetry to view expose
Must be prepar'd to be abus'd in Prose
Onely our Author garrison'd in's grave,
Fears no mans censure, nor applause does crave:
Leaves these Remains; if they're approv'd of, so.
If not so too. But he would have us know,
He's now above our reach; for his Estate
He has secur'd against the common Fate
Of leaving to young heirs, whose high desires
Are to spend all, and be accounted Squires
He was his own Executor, and made
Ev'n with the world; and that small All he had —
He without Law or Scribe put out of doubt;
Poor he came into th'world, and poor went out.
His soul and body higher powers claim,
There's nothing left to play with, but his name;
Which you may freely toss; he all endures.
But as you use his name, so'll others yours.