Classic Poem

I Sing the man , (read it who list,
A Trojan , true, as ever pist)
Who from Troy Town, by wind and weather
To Italy , (and God knows whither)
Was packt, and wrackt, and lost, and tost,
And bounc'd from Pillar unto Post.
Long wandred he through thick and thin,
Half-rosted now; now wet to'th skin;
By Sea and Land; by Day and Night;
Forc'd (as 'tis said) by the Gods spite:
Although the wiser sort suppose
'Twas by an old Grudge of Juno 's
A Murrain curry all Curst Wives!
He needs must goe, the Devil drives.
Much suffer'd he likewise in Warr,
Many drie blowes, and many a scarr:
Many a Rap, and much adoe
At Quarter-staffe, and Cudgells too,
Before he could be quiet for 'um:
(Pox of all Knaves, for I abhor 'um)
But this same Younker at the last,
(All Brawls and Squabbles overpast)
And all these Rake-hells overcome,
Did build a pretty Grange , call'd Rome .
But oh my Muse! put me in mind,
To which o'th' Gods was he unkind?
Or what, the Plague, did Juno mean,
(That cross-grain'd, peevish, scolding Quean,
That scratching, catter-wawling Puss,)
To use an Honest Fellow thus?
(To curry him like Pelts at Tanners)
Have Goddesses no better Manners?