Classic Poem

If Sapho sage, for Saphic sang so sueit,
Did pleid for prais, and place amang the nyne;
If trustie talk with tales so trew do meit,
Amid the gods dois duell that dame devyne.

And now of lait that lustie ladie rair,
Olimpia——O lampe of Latine land!
So doeth thy workes unto this day declair:
For lyflie art, quho list thy vers to scand.

A thrid, O maistres Marie! make I pray:
And put in ure thy worthie vertews all.
For famous is your fleing fame; I say,
Hyd not so haut a hairt in slugish thrall.

This buik then bear, and beat your branes thairin;
A plesant poet perfyte sall ye be.
And, lytill labour lost, the lawrell win;
Adorn'd with cumlie croun of poesie.