Classic Poem

I never wash'd, that I could tell,
My lips in Cabalinus' well,
Nor never on Parnassus' tops
I ever dreamt of any hopes
Whereby a poet I should be
To write on th' sudden as you see.
Pale Piren and that Helicon
I leave with these: I wash'd in none
About whose banks still may be seen
The clinging ivy always green.
I, half a poet, bring my verse
Unto the Muses' sacred hearse.
Who taught the parrot, pie, and crow
To imitate our language so?
The belly, master of that art,
Hath taught our wit by feeling smart,
And is the best artificer
To teach them words denied are.
But if deceitful hope hath shined
Of getting money ready coin'd,
You would believe the crow, the pie,
Sing Pegasean melody.