Classic Poem

What strange adventure, what new unlooked-for arrival,
Hath drawn the Muses from sweet Bœotia mountains,
To choose our country, to seek in London abiding?
Are fair Castalian streams dried? stands Cyrrha no longer?
Or love the Muses, like wantons, oft to be changing?
Scarce can I that suppose, scarce think I those to be Muses:
No sound of melody, no voice but dreary lamenting.
Yet well I wot too well, Muses most dolefully weeping.
See where Melpomene sits hid for shame in a corner:
Hear ye the careful sighs, fetched from the depth of her entrails?
There weeps Calliope, there sometimes lusty Thalia.
Ah me! alas, now know I the cause, now seek I no further;
Here lies their glory, their hope, their only rejoicing.
Dead lies worthy Philip, the care and praise of Apollo:
Dead lies his carcase, but fame shall live to the world's end.