Classic Poem

Rest, good my Muse, and give me leave to rest;
We strive in vain:
Conceal thy skill within thy sacred breast,
Though to thy pain.
The honour great which Poets wont to have,
With worthy deeds is buried deep in grave;
Each man will hide his name,
Thereby to hide his shame;
And silence is the praise their virtues crave.

To praise is flattery, malice to dispraise:
Hard is the choice.
What cause is left for thee, my Muse, to raise
Thy heav'nly voice?
Delight thyself on sweet Parnassus' hill,
And for a better time reserve thy skill;
There let thy silver sound,
From Cyrrha wood rebound;
And all the vale with learned music fill.

Then shall those fools, that now prefer each rime
Before thy skill,
With hand and foot in vain assay to climb
Thy sacred hill.
There shalt thou sit, and scorn them with disdain,
To see their fruitless labour all in vain:
But they shall fret with spite,
To see thy glory bright,
And know themselves thereto cannot attain.