Classic Poem

I That hate Books (such as come daily out
By Publick Licence to the Reading Rout)
A Due Religion yet observe to this,
And here assert, if any thing's amiss,
It can be only the Compiler's Fault
Who has ill-drawn the Charming Author's Thought;
That all was Right, Her Beauteous Looks were join'd
To a no less admir'd Excelling Mind;
But oh! This Glory of Frail Nature's dead,
As I shall be that Write, and you that Read;
Once to be out of Fashion, I'll conclude
With something that may tend to publick Good,
I wish that Piety, for which in Heav'n
The Fair is plac't, to the Lawn-Sleeves were given.
Her Justice to the Knot of Men whose Care
From the Rais'd Millions is to take their Share.