Classic Poem

May none but Phoebus kisse thy lines with sight,
Hee'l doe thee right .
'Tis not for mortals once to dare to scanne,
Thy height 'bove man
This speakes thy fellowship with supreme gods,
There's naught puts oddes ,
But lifes eternitie: tush, thy lines shall be,
A saintlike canon of thy memory.
Be bold then to the world, and dumbe that tongue
That dares thee wrong :
Yet thus give leave to vulgar braines to clap
Agnostus cap
Upon their heads, whose braines doe much lesse crave,
Then I deprave .
Scorne blast their dwellings, in simplicity
That spit their poyson; none shall venome thee.