Classic Poem

Poems are climes, faces, or tempers one,
A phlegmatique, rawe, starving Icie Zone,
Another's torride; no Liue things endure
Vnder the Line, without a Calenture;
A third is well-complexioned, Sound & faire
In whose glad rayes, delightfull dwellings are.
Had I rich nature, or rare art, t'afford
Or frame; (wthout one cold or scorching word,)
A vigorous, happie, & harmonious peice
Fedd with fresh ayres; (as blew on him in Greece,
Or him in Italy, whose brains brought forth
Æternall men, composd of witt & worth,)
To you it shou'd be sent, by you be meant.
You of that Iust & Ponderd temprament
Whereby, wise Nature swerving oft, we find
Hath still a mynd, to make vp such a mynd.
But (Sr) alas! My Veyne is waterish, dull,
My Clime of Mysts, & rebell foggs is full,
And of the golden rule theise Loose Lines fell
So shorte, they Learn't not numeration well.
In worst & Poorest sence, they hold the meane.
This face so farr from Cleare, it scarce is Clean[e]
So rough a feat[u]re, Low & darke a Cell,
You may Looke on, or in; but cannot dwell.