Classic Poem

So far as can a swain, who than a round
On oaten-pipe no further boasts his skill,
I dare to censure the shrill trumpet's sound,
Or other music of the sacred hill:
The popular applause hath not so fell,
Like Nile's loud cataract, possess'd mine ears
But others songs I can distinguish well
And chant their praise despised virtue rears:
Nor shall thy buskin'd Muse be heard alone
In stately palaces; the shady woods
By me shall learn't, and echoeSone by one
Teach it the hills, and they the silver floods.
Our learned shepherds that have us'd tofore
Their happy gifts in notes that woo the plains
By rural ditties will be known no more;
But reach at fame by such as are thy strains.
And I would gladly (if the Sisters spring
Had me enabled) bear a part with thee,
And for sweet groves, of brave heroës sing,
But since it fits not my weak melody,
It shall suffice that thou such means dost give,
That my harsh lines among the best may live.