Classic Poem

As a rich gem, enchas'd in gold, affords
More radiant lustre to the gazer's eye
Imprison'd so, within it self it hoards
Up all the beamy treasures of the sky;
Beams loose reflex on bodies diaphane,
But cast on solids they rebound again:
So would thy lines, my friend, in paper pent
Contract the whole applauses of the age;
But should they, a neglected ornament,
Be solely made the study of the stage,
They might, like water in the sunshine set,
Retain his image, not impart his heat.

Then print thy Poem, Shirley, 'twere a fault
To dungeon this instructive piece of thine:
Had the sun's sphere been made a thick-ribb'd vault,
We had receiv'd no influence from his shine:
Thou shouldst die traitor to succeeding times,
And thy best virtues prove but splendid crimes.