Classic Poem

Who Edmonds, reads thy book, and doth not see
What the antique soldiers were, the moderns be?
Wherein thou show'st, how much the latter are
Beholding, to this master of the war;
And that, in action, there is nothing new,
More, than to vary what our elders knew:
Which all, but ignorant captains, will confess:
Nor to give Caesar this, makes ours the less.
Yet thou, perhaps, shall meet some tongues will grutch,
That to the world thou should'st reveal so much,
And thence, deprave thee, and thy work. To those
Caesar stands up, as from his urn late rose,
By thy great help: and doth proclaim by me,
They murder him again, that envy thee.