Classic Poem

Nature, which is the vast creation's soule,
That steady curious agent in the whole,
The art of Heav'n, the order of this frame,
Is onely number in another name:
For as some King, conqu'ring what was his own,
Hath choice of severall titles to his crown;
So harmony, on this score now, that then,
Yet still is all that takes and governs men
Beauty is but Composure, and we find
Content is but the Concord of the mind,
Friendship the Unison of well-tun'd hearts,
Honour's the Chorus of the noblest parts,
And all the world on which we can reflect,
Musique to th'Eare, or to the intellect.
If then each man a little world must be,
How many worlds are coppy'd out in Thee?
Who art so richly formed, so compleat,
I epitomize all that is good or great;
Whose stars this brave advantage did impart,
Thy nature's more harmonious then thy art
Thou dost above the Poets praises live,
Who fetch from thee th Eternity they give;
And as true reason triumphs over sence,
Yet is subjected to intelligence:
So Poets on the lower world look down,
But Lawes on them; his height is all his own
For, like divinity it self, his Lyre
Rewards the wit it did at first inspire:
And thus by double right Poets allow
His and their Laurells should adorn his brow
Live then (Great soule of nature!) to asswage
The savage dullness of this sullen age;
Charm us to sence, and though experience faile,
And reason too, thy numbers will prevaile
Then (like those Ancients) strike, and so command
All nature to obey thy generous hand:
None can resist, but such who needs will be
More stupid then a Stone, a Fish, a Tree.
Be it thy care our Age to new=create:
What built a world may sure repayre a state