Classic Poem

F. The L. M.

I hate the vulgar dietyes
With their Ar[se] hole Plebeities
Let not my muse fall in their wayes
Whose garlands stinke, are not of Bayes
For all that ever such comend
Bewray the vaine foule fingers end
Smell all of tallowe and of Greace
Noe whit of oile the Lamps increase
Tearme Rapture madnes and a floud
Of Christall layes but Channell mud
Prophane all by the sisters spun
Or what Apolloes Preists have done
When I those sacred vestments were
That could enthrone me in that sphere
Whence I might dart a ray of verse
Nor tyme before did ere reherse
To ad more fire
To yongue desire
Touching my sweet soft Lesbian lyre
Then let noe rustick note wage warre
Upon my strings to make them jarre
But by the Cliffe the Key the Eights
Each one observer of there leights
In Diapason true expresse
How concords raysd from differences
Soe people set in tune againe
May owne there lawfull soveraigne.