Classic Poem

May it please your Majesty,

The first Draught of this Trifle was so ill,
That 'twas the Crime, not Issue of the Quill,
Shape being wanting, to avoid the shame
The Spunge was destin'd Critick, or the Flame;
My Mercy finding out this way alone
To mend it with one Blot, or make it none.
But touch'd with your Command, my Muse, like Steel
Kiss'd by the Loadstone, did new Motion feel;
Whence this redeem'd from Fire unto your Eye
(Only perhaps to perish Royally)
Fears 'tis no Pardon, but Reprivall, and
Dreads the same Fate, though from another Hand:
So that the Change but little comforteth;
Sentence from you being but the State of Death.
And that Fear comes from that Encrease of Ill,
That the last Errours are the greatest still.
Th'are Errours yet commanded, and plead this,
That by Injunction they have done amisse.
Two Names are due to't then; and some may ghesse
That I obey, others that I transgresse:
The Prospect thus being Double-bounded, I
Hope that you'l put the first unto your Eye;
That, what th'Extent of Sight would stile offence,
The half-way Stop may call Obedience.