Classic Poem

My Lord tis your virtue a great & a rare one
That hauing ascended aboue an old Baron
Your dignitie dos not to strangnesse compell you
Nor with a proud tympany all overswell you,
In most of our great ones their titles addition
Makes worke for the Surgeon & for the Physition
Quite altering the state of their bodies for ever
Their bloud overboiles, strange heats in the liuer
The brain with a dull vertigo so tainted
With all their old frends they grow disacquainted
With noses awry, eyes staring, & flushing
And cheeks fedd with pumples that never knew blushing
Old gentle salutings their language forbearing
And know but two graces thats bawdry & swearing
A lord such as theise the hobby-horse passes
For a beast dounright, a fantasticall asse is
But you though a Viscount are still my Lord Crumwell
And keep the same posture, which dos you become well
Right English, true hearted, & good to my thinking
Yet some talke of wenches and I except drinking
My lord in your voiage may a poor man advise you
To sinke those false Pyrats that lie to surprise you
All winds then of honour with full sailes attend you
Till past rocks & flatts ore the surges they send you
To find that rare port of virtues vnspotted
Wher my noble masters haue places allotted,
Both which since you loue & of both are beloued
O Imitate both & so liue vnreproved
Mean while for all three to pray I do promise
Good Harrie, braue Robbin and you noble Tommis.