Classic Poem

Simon my son, son of my Nuptiall knott
Ah! Simon's gone, Simon my son is not
Whose Heaven-born Soul in full ripe fruit appears
Wherein he liv'd an age above his years.
Whose pregnant witt, quick Genius, parts sublime
Facill'd his Books, made him Pernassus clime
And Dare Apelles so were he alive
Who best should . . . or Rarest piece contrive
He unappall'd with humble Confidence
Could to's Superiours speak without Offence
So free and unconcern'd as one had been
Conversing with his Equalls Dayly seen
His Towering Fancy, and his quaint invention
Excell'd most of his Standing and pretention
Lovely in's features his Complection fair
Of comely Jeasture, flaxen was his haire
But that which Crowneth all the Rest
In his own language better is Exprest.