Classic Poem

At ease I red your worke, and am right sorrye
It came not forth before Encomium Moriae ,
Or in the dayes when good King James the First
Carowsed the horse's spring to quench his thirst;
I durst haue giuen my thombe and layed a wager
Thy name had grac't the Chronicles of Jhon Major.
Had thou liu'd in the dayes of great Augustus,
(Hence, vulgare dotards, hence, unlesse yee trust us,)
Thy workes, with geese, had kept the Capitole,
And thou for euer been a happy soule,
Thy statue had been raised neare Claudianus,
And thou in court liu'd equall with Sejanus.
Cornelius Tacitus is no such poet,
Nor Liuie; I'll say more ere that I goe yet:
Let all that heere doe weare celestiall bonnetes,
Lyke thyne, they cannot write four-squared sonnets,
Which shine like to that mummye brought from Venice,
Or like the French king's relicks at Saint Denis.
It is a matter of regrate and pittye
Thou art not read into that famous citie
Of Constantine, for then the Turckes and Tartares
Had drunke with us, and like to ours worne gartares;
And the strange muphetees and hard Mameluckes
Had cut their beardes, and got by hart thy bookes.
If any them detract, though hee were Xenaphon,
Thou shalt haue such reuenge as ere was tane of one,
From this our coast unto the wall of China,
Where maides weare narrow shoes; thou hast been a
Man for enuie, though such forsooth was Horace,
Yet thou no lesse dost write than hee, and soare ass
As farre in this our tongue as any Latines,
Though some doe reade their verse, that ware fine satines;
Rome's latest wonder, great Torquato Tasso,
Writing, to thee were a pecorious asse, hoe!
Now, to conclude, the nine Castalian lasses
Their maidenheades thee sell for fannes and glasses.