Classic Poem

SHALL I BE onlye Hereticke in witt?
Forbid Appolloe; rather let me Splitt
My lab'ring Quill to Death. Noe; when I first
Enterd a Poet, Modestie, (the worst
Companion of Sedition) brought me on
In tremblings, and faint Sweats; I did not run
To Snatch the Laurel; and usurpe the wreath
To my owne Browes; but dasht with everie Breath
Of a supposed Censure, happilye lost
The Glorie of my Youth; then be it most
Abhorring to my Thoughts, to lay a new
Foundation; or varie from the true
Undoubted Rites of Poesie; or bring
But Cleare, and pregnant Reasons, any Thing.
This Ingenuitie, and Candor must
Allow of Force; and if a Schisme thrust
In all my verse, a monstrous Horne, or foot,
Cloven, to light of Judgment, blot me out
Of fair opinion; and my Name Ile give
Up, witts Apostate evermore to live.
Nor would I yet be bitter; or engage
My selfe in Controversie, to the Age
With Sword and Buckler Language; but with all
The Modestie of Truth and Reason, call
A long spread error backe; and ratifie
Some proofes, to free me from this Heresie.
Shall wee, who are made Judges then, and keepe
Minervaes holie Balance fall asleepe?
And let the giddie Rout give weight, and poise,
To Indesert? For Shame; Let us arise
And yet informe the Age. Shall wee derive
Our English Flame, our Glories Primitive
From antique Chaucer? blesse me witt; if right
Were onlie right, I feare, a present night
Would cover all his Credit. This I wage
Onlye for Truth; in reverence to the Age
Wherein he writt; but to the proof; and see
Her firme Records, kept by Mnemosyne.
See, antique Greece; and see her in her Spring
Verdant and glorious; not lesse flourishing
At her first rise, then after; heare the String
Of sacred Orpheus, or hear Linus Sing;
Or to the Prince of All, Maeonides,
Attend with reverence; tell me; were not these
(When Learning hardly Crept) bright Suns? and Shine
Even to these Times of ours, with Light Devine?
Full in exalted Rapture, Poesie
Appeares in them, almost a Prodigie.
Survay the Catalogue, of Splendent Rome:
Caesar-supported Maro; yet by whom
Has he bene Equall'd, for a Steddie verse?
Wonder at Ovid, when Hee doth reherse
The Change of Things; what mightie flame doth fill
His varied Fancie, to enrich his Quill.
A Thousand moe, in her bright Roll appeared
Of everie Nation, Poets, who, have rear'd
The Laurel famous; whom wee justlie Call
The learned Fathers of Apolloes Hall.
And shall the seelie Age (with noise, and Stuffe
Like his owne writings) blow at Chaucers Snuffe?
To light our English Flame? where doth he rouse
The fresh pruned Feathers, of an Active muse?
Where doth he stretch a wing? or kicke his Clod?
But still his Fancie, is his greatest Load;
How liveles his Conceipts? he doth not rise
Like ancient Poets, in huge Extasies
Of uncontrolled Fancie, to Survay
Inestimable nature; I might say
Much more, to vindicate this Argument,
That in-authenticke Chaucers furnishment,
Adds nothing to our Poesie, in his Store;
Nor let us call him Father, anie more.
And you (who hardly out of Judgment) would
Seeme to defend him; cause you have bene told
Your Grandsires Laugh'd once at his Baud'rie
Laid out in Rime; (forsooth rare Poetrie!)
But where he comes the nearest, what you meane:
You'r wearie there your selv's, and leave him Cleane.
Perhaps you'le say, (as you have heard some say)
He was a glorious Poet, at that Day;
And why that Day? was Fancie in a Cage?
Rapture impounded? twas in the Darke Age
(As you would call it) when the former Sung;
Scarce then had witt, more then her mother tongue;
And yet they gain'd the Sphere, from whence wee bring
Our Cheifest Flowers, our best Embellishing.
Forget Third Edwards raigne. They did not write
In that Age with the Spirrit they could fight;
For then Ide yeild (and in my Conscience wee
Use Pens, as well as Swords). Suffice it; Hee
Was disadvantaged of naught in Time,
But Language; which wee never made a Crime.
Why may not wee, better exempt his name
Then use it? adding nothing to our Fame;
And take the Radix, of our Poesie
To honour more, in this last Centurie;
The noble Sidney; Spencer liveing Still
In an abundant fancie; Jonsons Quill
Ever admir'd. These justly wee may call
Fathers; high placed, in Apolloes Hall;
But then wee want Antiquitie; as well
Dan Geoffrie wants his Age; for wee might tell
Of antique Brittish Druid's, and bring in
A hundred Rhiming Fellowes, that have bin
Tall Men at Meeter. One there was that Sung
I know not in what number, nor what tongue;
A gallant Storie, of Giganticke Feats,
Inchanted Castles, onsetts, and retreats
Innumerable; of a flying Bull
And six blue dragons. Oh most worshipfull,
Bring in these Fopperies; because they smell
Mustie, and antiquated; therfore well.
Come to a Clearer Light; doe not delude
Your selves (heroicke English) to intrude
His name, the Cheif, in your faire pedigree.
Worthe is still worthy, in it selfe; were Hee
(Good Man) alive to heare it, sure as ought
Hee'd thinke, you lost more then hee ever taught;
To heare the Crue come in with open Mouth
And Crye, Oh Chaucer; Chaucer has a Tooth,
Oh perilous; and soe he had a Tongue;
Read him againe, heele shew you how it hung.
But let not me, my first Designe outgoe;
(Which was upon Sound Arguments) to shew
A Spring more worthy, whence wee may derive
With greater Honour, the Prerogative
Of English Poesie; and clearlie evince
Noe Age can be call'd Darke, to a Cleare Sence;
As in the Ancients; this I doe, and must
Freely averre; which, if the Age will thrust
Upon me as an Heresie, how Cleare
Stand I to Judgment? I can never feare
Such Censure from the wise; and I contemne
Loud Follie, in a Thousand; fitteth them,
And Mee with them, better to let it fall
And please them, in a Canterburye Tale.