Classic Poem

Pardon me, Sir, this injury to your Bayes,
That I, who only should admire, dare Praise.
In this great Acclamation to your Name
I adde vnto the noise, though not the Fame.
'Tis to your Happy cares wee owe, that wee
Read Chaucer now without a Dictionary;
Whose faithfull Quill such constant light affords,
That we now read his thoughts, who read his words,
And, though we know't done in our age by you,
May doubt which is the Coppy of the two.
Rome in her Language here beginnes to know
Laws yet vntry'd, proud to be fetterd so;
And, taught our Numbers now at last, is thus
Growne Brittaine yet, and owes one change to vs.
The good is common. Hee, that hitherto
Was dumbe to strangers, and's owne Country too,
Speakes plainely now to all; being more our owne
Eu'n hence, in that thus made to Aliens knowne.