Classic Poem

But turn we hence to you, as some there be
Who in the Coppy wooe the Deity;
Who think then most succesfull steps are trod
When they approach the Image for the God.
Our King hath shewn his Bounty, Sir, in you,
By giving whom, h'hath giv'n us Buildings too.
For we see Harvests in a showre, and when
Heav'n drops a Dew, say it drops Flowers then,
Whiles all that blessed fatness doth not fall
To fill that Basket, or this Barn, but All.
We know y'have Vertues in you now which stand
Eager for Action, and expect Command;
Vertues now ripe, Train'd up, and Nurtur'd so
That they wait only when you'l bid them flow.
Indulge you then, Our Rising Sun, we may
Say your first Rayes broke here to make a Day:
For though the Light, when grown, powrs fuller streams,
'Tis yet more precious in it's Virgin Beams;
And though the third or fourth may do the Cure,
The Eldest Tear of Balsam's still most pure.
'Tis only then our Pride that we may dwell
As Vertues do in you, compleat and well;
That when a College finish'd, is the sport
And Pastime only of your yonger Court,
An Act, to which some could not well arive
After their fifty, done by you at five,
The late and Tardy Stock of Nephews may
Reading your Story, think you were born Gray;
This is the Thread weaves all our Hopes: for since
All Better Vertues now are call'd the Prince
(As smaller Rivers lose their words, and beare
No name but Ocean when they come in there)
Thence we expect them, as these Streams we know
Can from no other Womb or Bosome flow;
Limne you our Venus then throughout, be she
Christned, some Part at least, your Deity;
That when to take you Painters go about,
They be compell'd to leave some of you out;
Whiles you shew something here that won't admit
Colours and shape, something that cannot sit.
Thus shall you nourish future Writers, who
May give Fame back those things you do bestow:
Where Merits too will be your work, and then
That Age will think you gave not stones, but Men.