Classic Poem

A horse I am, whom bit,
Raine, rod, nor spurre, not feare;
When I my riders beare,
Within my wombe, not on my backe they sit:
No streames I drinke, nor care for grasse, nor corne;
Arte mee a monster wrought,
All nature's workes to scorne:
A mother, I was without mother borne;
In end all arm'd my father I forth brought:
What thousand ships, and champions of renowne
Could not doe free, I captiue raz'd a towne.