Classic Poem

Thou art my son, in that my choyse is spoke:
Thine with thy fathers muse strikes equall stroke,
It shewd more art in Virgil to relate ,
And make it worth th' heareing, his Gnats fate;
Then to conceive what those great mindes must be
That sought and found out fruitfull Italie.
And such as read and do not apprehend
And with applause the purpose and the end
Of this neat Poem, in themselves confesse
A dull stupidite and barrennesse.
Methinks I do behold in this rare birth
A temple built up to facetious mirth,
Pleasd Phoebus smiling on it; doubt not then, ,
But that the suffrage of juditious men
Will honour this Thalia; and for those
That praise Sr. Bevis, or whats worse in prose,
Let them dwell still in ignorance, To write
In a new strain, and from it raise delight
As thou in this hast done, doth not by chance
But merit, crowne thee with the laurell branch.