Classic Poem

While fruitfull Nile ador'd his horned Queen
And mitred Preists were at her Altars seen,
Compell'd to Worship, and yet hardly fed;
Afflicted Israel from the Idol fled.
But when grown hungry in the desart waste
They sigh'd for shows, and thought of Flesh pots past
(Isis processions were like Birth days fine
And they at Festivals were ask'd to dine),
Her Gracious help they now wish'd to implore
And would have made a Goddess to adore,
But such her size, their gold but form'd her half,
Their Deity was lessen'd to a Calfe.
So haughty Patriots missing of their Aim
Left their Devotion to their Royal Dame,
Yet still desirous in some court to shine,
Paid their addresses to the Prince's shrine.