Classic Poem

Doth not a Tenarif, or higher hill
Rise so high like a rock, that one might think
The floating Moon would shipwreck there, and sink?
Seas are so deep, that Whales being strook to-day,
Perchance to-morrow, scarce at middle way
Of their wish'd journey's end, the bottom, die.
And men, to sound depths, so much line untie,
As one might justly think, that there would rise
At end thereof, one of th' Antipodies . . .