Classic Poem

Muse ere we part, let wittye Arnold know
Haud pulchrum est monstrari digito.
Giue him an anser quick, who when cutt of
His fingar was; cou'd turne it to a Scoff
I'th'turning of an hand. T'is prettie Sound
But his discyphering giues his sence a wound
Wou'd not his nose whippt of, Stubb his Prose?
His feete in verse shoot forth by cropping of his toes?
I knowe not how his Arts may since encrease
But Sure hee's maim'd in Liberall Sciences.
His Grammer's gone: His ablatiue's to seeke
Nor can he helpe it with the merrie Greeke.
For Logicke hee's in a faire Pr ae dicament
Loosing his substance by an accident
And striues to Lick it whole by argument.
His vocale musique rellishes for aye
But this quite spoiles his fingering (they say)
O the fiue fingar's a great helpe in play.
But if vnto Arithmetique we come
Hee'l find a way to rayse the totall summe
Yet must be twice beholden to Tom Thumbe.
Nor can Geometrie or proue or showe
Foure parts of fiue are all, or else 'tis soe
Just as Tetragonon in TRigano.
Helpe then Astronomie; some influence
From Mars, a shewre of flesh & blood dispense
Why may not bones & nayles too fall from thenc[e]
Which warme applied may grow to litle sence.
So this Rime taken hote; whom it offend es
They haue their mends ith'r hand es at fingars e[nds]