Classic Poem

Thy noble Muse already hath beene spred
Through Europe and the Sun-scorch'd Southerne climes,
That Ile where Saturnes royall Sonne was bred,
Hath beene enricht with thy immortall rimes:
Even to the burnt line have thy poems flowne,
And gain'd high fame in the declining West,
And o're that cold Sea shall thy name be blowne,
That Icie mountaines rowleth on her brest:
Her soaring hence so farre made me admire,
Whether at length thy worthy Muse would flie,
Borne through the tender ayre with wings of fire,
Able to lift her to the starrie skie:
This work resolv'd my doubts, when th'earths repleate
With her faire fruit, in Heav'n shee'le take her seate.