Classic Poem

When I thy Reasons weigh, and meat thy Rimes,
I find they haue such happy weight and measure,
As make thy Lines extend to After-times,
To leade them to a Masse of Wisdomes Treasure,
With weighty Matter so thou load'st thy Lines,
As to dimme sights they oft seeme darke as Hell;
But those cleere eies that see their deepe designes,
Do ioy to see much Matter coucht so well!
But these thy Numbers most familiar bee,
Because strange Matter plainely they recount:
For which Men shall familiar be with thee
That know thee not; and, make thy fame to mount.
I know no Tongues-man more doth grace his Tong
With more materiall Lines, as streight as strong!

I N all thy Writings thou hast such a Vaine,
As but thy selfe thy selfe canst counterset;
Which, lying farre beyond the vulgar straine,
Is harder well to open, then to get
Few idle words thou hast to answer for
In all thy works; but thou dost merite much
(Nay supererogate) who dost abhorre
Superfluous words, though thine be over-rich!
Both Words and Matter do so well agree,
To glorifie themselves in either kinde,
That we must needs renowne both them, and thee,
Who neerely sought (for vs) the fame to finde:
Thy Numbers flow from such a Minds excesse,
As all seeme Raptures, in all happinesse;