Classic Poem

Vertue's reward is Honour, and though you
Wear no more Titles than descend as due
From your brave Ancestors, yet to your Blood
Tis an addition (Sir) to be thought Good.
You, whose demeanor bears that equall port,
You've won the love, not envie of the Court ;
That can observe the forme and Laws of State,
Gaining mens emulation, not their hate ;
That with a nobler temper can decide
The diff'rence 'twixt formalitie and pride,
That your indifferent actions are as far
From b'ing too common, as too singular,
So that with glorious freedome you direct
Your Will to what it ought most to affect.
You in whose Nature (as two Suns) arise
The Attributes of Bountefull and Wise.
You that are Valiant, (as Fames eldest Child
Honour) yet teach even Valour to be mild.
You that (in brief) with certain judgment can
Be perfect Courtier, yet be perfect Man.
'Tis no Poetick flatt'ry that does raise
My eager Muse up to this height of Praise.
Big with an holy and Prophetick rage,
In Fame's great Book, I in an ample Page
Wil fix the Annals of your Worth, which shall
When other Names are held Apocryphall,
In that eternall Volume be annext
A faire Appendix to that glorious Text.
But now (Great Sir) 'tis time that I excuse
The too audacious errours of my Muse,
And by my humble wishes strive to win
A full remission for its daring sin.
May you enjoy what ever Strength and Health
Can yeeld of pleasure ; or unbounded Wealth
Can without riot purchase : may you bee
As free from others envie, as y' are free
From its desert : and may (which long since
You had) grow great i' th' favour of your Prince.
May not mischance invade your souls blest peace ;
But may it even as it consumes, increase.
And when decrepid age shall slowly creep
Over your Youth, and to eternall Sleep
Confine your eye-lids ; may you then expire
Blest as a Martyr that does Court the Fire.

Poets are Prophets Sir, and things indeed
Happen, when they but wish they may succeed.