Classic Poem

When Authors wryte god knowes what thinge is true:
Old Homer wrot of fine Vlysses witt
And Ovid wrote of Venus heavnly hue
And Ariosto of Orlantos fitt,
One wrote his pleasure of Caliope:
I am to write of swete Penelope.

And where ech one did shewe a secret vaine
And whether that Vlysses were or not;
And thoughe that Ovid did but only faine,
And Ariosto sett downe manie a blott,
And some wrote lewdly of Caliope:
I write but truth of sweete Penelope.

And if I had Vlysses skilfull skonce,
With Homers penne, and Ovids heavnly vaine;
I wold sett downe a wounder for the nonce,
To sett them all a new to wurke againe;
And he that wrote of his Caliope
Shold hushe to heere of this Penelope.

As true as shee that was Vlisses wif,
As faire as she whom some a goddesse faine;
A saincte of shape and of more vertuous life.
Then she for whom Orlandos knight was slaine;
In euerie thinge aboue Caliope,
There is none suche as swete Penelope.

And for this time goe looke the world that wyll
For constant faire, for vertue and good grace;
For euery parte in whom no parte is ill,
For perfecte shape and for a heavnly face;
Angelica, Venus, Caliope
Are all but blowes vnto Penelope.