Classic Poem

I sing the furious battles of the Spheres
Acted in eight and twenty fathom deep,
And from that time, reckon so many years
You'll find Endymion fell fast asleep.

And now assist me, O ye Musiques nine
That tell the orbs in order as they fight,
And thou, dread Atlas, with thine eyes so fine
Smile on me now that first began to write.

Pompey that once was tapster of New June,
And fought with Caesar on th' Aemathian plains,
First with his dreadful Myrmidons came in,
And let them blood in the hepatic veins.

But then an antelope in sable blue,
Clad like the Prince of Aurange in his cloak,
Studded with satires, on his army drew,
And presently Pheander's army broke.

Philip for hardiness surnamed Chubb,
In beauty equal to fork bearing Bacchus,
Made such a thrust at Phoebe with his club,
That made the Parthians cry, She will becack us;

Which heard, the Delphic Oracle drew nigh
To wipe fair Phoebe, if aught were amiss,
But Heliotrope, a little crafty spy,
Cried clouts were needless, for she did but piss.

A subtle glow-worm lying in a hedge,
And heard the story of sweet cheek'd Apollo,
Snatch'd from bright Stryopes his antic sledge,
And to the butter'd flounders cried out Holla.

Holla, you pamper'd jades, quoth he, look here;
And mounting straight upon a lobster's thigh,
An Englishman inflam'd with double beer,
Swore never to drink to man, a woman by.

By this time grew the conflict to be hot,
Boots against boots, 'gainst sandals, sandals fly,
Many poor thirsty men went to the pot,
Feather lopped off, spurs everywhere did lie.