Classic Poem

Friend, — how I haste unto that name! my quill
Runs fraught with my whole soul, and fears to spill
One drop before it; proud to have men know
The glory of the name thou didst bestow,
And to derive eternity thereto
From this learn'd work, which marble could not do;
Ambitious, to posterity to send
For light to both, thy Traitor and thy Friend .
This, and I've said; for, friend, I stand not here
To praise, or in thy quarrel spend my jeer
On some third man, nor court I, I profess,
The humorous reader into gentleness;
No, friend, thou writ'st before, thyself, and when
Shirley is nam'd, praise is the same again.