Classic Poem

Expect not here a curious river fine:
Our wits are short of that — alas the time!
The neat refined language of the court
We know not; if we did, our country sport
Must not be too ambitious: 'tis for kings,
Not for their subjects, to have such rare things.
Besides, though, I confess, Parnassus hardly,
Yet Helicon this summer-time is dry:
Our wits were at an ebb, or very low;
And, to say troth, I think they cannot flow.
But yet a gracious influence from you
May alter nature in our brow-sick crew.
Have patience then, we pray, and sit awhile,
And, if a laugh be too much, lend a smile.