Classic Poem

My Lord, th' Indictment do's not run
On Houses fir'd, or Murders done;
Three Goats are missing, says my Brief,
And we tax Maeris for the Thief.
Thus, read profoundly in the Laws,
Our Posthumus unfolds his cause.
Well, to your Evidence proceed,
Replies the Judge, and prove the Deed.
The Serjeant kindles on his Stand,
Prepares his Lungs, and waves his Hand;
Then Cannae, Mithridates ' War,
The Punic Perjury and Fear,
With Sylla, Marius, Mutius all,
He mouths, and thunders thro' the Hall.
Dear Posthumus , enough of these,
And now, for Heav'ns sake, if you please,
Come to the Text, and mind your Notes
At length, and let us have the Goats.