Classic Poem

These Lyrick Pieces, short, and few,
Most worthy Sir, I send to you,
To reade them, be not wearie:
They may become John H EWES his Lyre,
Which oft at Powlsworth by the fire
Hath made us gravely merry.

Beleeve it, he must have the Trick
Of Ryming; with Invention quick,
That should doe Lyricks well:
But how I have done in this kind,
Though in my selfe I cannot find,
Your Judgement best can tell.

Th'old British B ARDS , upon their Harpes,
For falling Flatts, and rising Sharpes,
That curiously were strung;
To stirre their Youth to Warlike Rage,
Or their wyld Furie to asswage,
In these loose Numbers sung.

No more I for Fooles Censures passe,
Then for the braying of an Asse,
Nor once mine Eare will lend them:
If you but please to take in gree
These Odes , sufficient 'tis to mee;
Your liking can commend them.