Classic Poem

Thou Cozen to great Madames and allyed
To all the beauties that are Ladified,
Thou Eagle of the Realme, whose eyes can see,
Th' invisible plots of forraine policie,
Thou great and unknown Learning of thy nation
Made not by study but by inspiration!
The Court, the State, the Schooles together be
By th' ears, and fight, and scratch, and all for thee.
When I beheld thee cringe in some faire Hall
And scrape proportions Mathematicall,
Varying thy mouth as 'twere by Magick spell
To circle, ovall, square, and triangle,
And take a virgin by the Ivory hand
Minting words to her, none can understand
But in a vision, and some verse repeat
So well inchanted, none the sense can get,
Till they have conjur'd in lines strange and many,
To finde what spirit it has, if it have any.
To see thy feet (though nature made them splay)
Screw in the toes to dance and force a way
To some smooth measure, as might justly vaunt
Thou art turn'd Monseur of an Elephant.
Thy mother sure going to see some sport,
Tilting, or Masque, conceiv'd thee in the Court.
But when I view thee gravely nod, and spit
In a grave posture, shake the head, and fit
Plots to bring Spaine to England , and confine
King Philips Indies unto Middletons mine .
When I read ore thy Comments sagely writ
On the currantoes, and with how much wit
Thy profound Aphorismes doe expound to us
The Almanacks , and Gallobelgicus ;
When I conceive what newes thou wilt bring ore
When thou returnst with thy Embassador;
What slops the Switzer weares to hide his joynts,
How French and how the Spaniards truss their points;
How ropes of Onions at Saint Omers goe,
And whether Turkes be Christians yea or noe.
Then I believe one in deep points so able,
Was surely got under the Councell table.
But when I heare thee of Celarent write
In Ferio and Baralypton fight,
Me thinks my then Prophetique soule durst tell
Thou must be borne at Aristotles Well.
But shall I tell thee friend how thy blest fate
By chance hath made thy name so fortunate.
The States-man thinks thou hast too much o' th' Court,
The Courtier thinks thy sager parts doe sort
Best for the State; as for the Ladies they
Pos'd with the Medley of thy language, say
Th'art a meere Scholler, and the Scholler swears
Thou art of any tribe rather then theirs.
One thinks thee this, one that, a third thinks either,
Thou thinkst thy selfe th'art all, and I think neither.