Classic Poem

Some say a poet's born, not made; but I
Say he's twice born that made this poesie.
Nature imparted little to his wit
'Twas grace which had the greatest hand in it;
His pen came from the wing of th' holy Dove
Dropping no gall, but innocence and love;
No scurrilous obscenity to make
It vendible, and with the rabble take;
No tenter-stretch't conceits, no puff-paste strains
Which serve not to instruct but wrack men's brains;
No such as their invention draw from wine
And reele into a verse: but all divine
Clear as the beams are of th' inlightned day
Smooth as the galaxy or milkie way,
Pure as Ezekiel's waters, which did glide
Forth of the Sanctuary on each side;
Made not to please the pallat of the foule
And carnal man, but to revive the soul
That humbled is at night and same of sin;
To cheer his spirits, comfort him within;
To scare bold sinners from their wicked course
And win them to a penitent remorse;
That they who take these poems up as men
May lay them down as saints, made by his pen;
Thus Ambrose catch't an Austin by his quaint
Divinity, the Manichee turn'd saint.