Classic Poem

Wise Reader (if you be) away, this poore
Flagg, this ill-painted ragge hung at ye dore
Minde not: The prize, the motion is within,
A worke so rare — Goe — you shall see your Sinne
In trifling here, with murmures harsh & flatt
To heare me fright, & vildly pr ae face that
Whose natiue rellish, sweet, & sharpe, & cleare,
Will both astonish & affect your eare;
And thence conveigh to curious Soul's in-sight
A cunning peice of horrour, & delight:
In lines well fy'l'd, w ch beaten round & streight
Flowe not alone in number, but in weight.
Plie then both sense & spirit, & tell me then
Where ought may be amended by your penn;
Only this Page misplac't, shou'ld be behinde
In this are all th'Errata you will finde.