Classic Poem

TO THE KING:

All FITT TO SERVE YOU , in this great Designe,
Where Action fires brave minds, to entertaine
Bright hopes of honour: and your Subject stand
A Guard to you; a Glorie to your Land;
Where Armes are only usefull: Sir, excuse
(When now Bellona thunders) a Sad Muse,
Who can noe other way, her Tribute bring,
But a weake forme of words; the offering
Of a neglected Poet, who to Fame,
Bequeath's his Numbers, rich in your great Name;
Tho' Sir; if I were happie, this might live
A Time, beyond what all your Annalls give:
And when the brasen Trumpe of Historie
Shall splitt with Time; and to Posteritie
Give scarce the Names, of your dead Ancestors;
When Statues, monuments, and high rear'd Towers
Shall drop to Dust, and lye forgotten in
A heape of Ruines; when the mouth of Sin
Shall spitt upon Just vertues, and deface
The Light of Truth, and Majestie disgrace;
When all the world shall suffer, in her Jawes
Wee stand Secure, and doe not feare the Lawes
Of Surly fate, nor the Decrees of Time;
Confident, in the force, of mighty Rhime.
But Franticke Poets erre; tis you can give
A Life to verse; the great Prerogative
Of Numbers cannot stand, without the Breath
Of Majestie; that only frees from Death;
Creates a Poet; and gives verse her wings.
This Sir: wee know; and thus this Poet Sings.