Classic Poem

The Translator to the Reader

If Chaucer now should live,
Whose eloquence divine
Hath passed the poets all that came
Of ancient Brutus' line;
If Homer here might dwell,
Whose praise the Greeks resound;
If Virgil might his years renew;
If Ovid might be found:
All these might well be sure
Their matches here to find,
So much doth England flourish now
With men of Muses' kind.
Since these might find their mates,
What shame shall this my rhyme
Receive that thus I publish here
In such a parlous time?
A Poet once there lived,
And Cheril was his name,
Who thought of Alexander's acts
To make immortal fame.
Bred up in Pegase' house,
Of Poets' ancient blood,
A thousand verses ill he made,
And none but seven good.
Sith Homer, Virgil, and the rest
May here their matches see,
Let Cheril not thereat disdain:
He shall be matched with me.
For each good verse he did receive