Classic Poem

Ye tender virgins, Dian sing,
Ye lads, the smooth-fac'd Phoebus praise;
And lov'd so much by heav'n's high king,
Latona likewise grace the lays.
Praise her that loves the streams and groves,
Such as cold Algidus o'ershade,
Or in black Erymanthus roves,
Or Cragus' ever-verdant glade.
Ye vying youths of Tempe tell,
And Delos, Phoebus' native place;
Him, whom the bow becomes so well,
And lyre of true Mercurial grace.
He, if tearful war inflicts,
Or wretched famine, as you pray,
Against the Persians and the Picts
From Caesar shall the plague convey.