Classic Poem

Men if you love us, play no more
The fools or tyrants with your friends,
To make us still sing o'er and o'er,
Our own false praises, for your ends:
We have both wits, and fancies too,
And if we must, let's sing of you.

Nor do we doubt, but that we can,
If we would search with care and pain,
Find some one good, in some one man;
So going thorow all your strain;
We shall, at last, of parcels make
One good enough for a song's sake.

And as a cunning painter takes
In any curious piece you see
More pleasure while the thing he makes
Then when 'tis made, why so will we.
And having pleased our art, we'll try
To make a new, and hang that by.