Classic Poem

Whom can I first accuse? whose fault account I the greatest?
Where kept the Muses, what countries haunted Apollo?
Where loitered bloody Mars, where lingered worthy Minerva?
What could three sisters do more than nine in a combat?
Was force of no force? was fair entreaty refused?
Where is the music that sometimes moved Alecto,
That gained Eurydice, that left Proserpina weeping?
Choose whether of the two you list, your skill to be nothing:
Or your most faithful servants unkindly rewarded.
And thou that braggest of skilful surgery knowledge,
That canst of simples discern the quality secret,
And give fit plaisters, for wounds that seem to be cureless;
Whereto avails thy skill, that cannot Sidney recover?
And could'st thou whilom prevail with destiny fatal,
For king Admetus 'gainst course of natural order,
And canst do nothing to save so faithful a servant?
As for Mars, well I wot, cold frost of Thracia kingdom
Hath killed all kindness, no ruth of him can be looked for;
And dainty Pallas disdained forsooth to be present;
Envy perhaps, nay grief as I guess, was cause of her absence.
Only we poor wretches, whom Gods and Muses abandon,
Lament thy timeless decay with sorrowful outcries.
But yet, if hap some Muse would add new grace to my verses,
Germany, France, Italy, Spain, Denmark, Persia, Turkey,
India, where Phaebus climbs from the sea to the skyward,
India, where Phaebus declines from sky to the seaward,
Tartary, Pole, Lettow, Muscovy, Bohemia, Norway;
All coasts where rising or falling Phaebus appeareth,
Should hear, and wonder to hear thy glory resounded:
Armenian tigers enraged for theft of a youngling,
Princely lions roaring, for want, of prey to be starved,
Fierce bears, and grunting wild boars, upon Arcady mountains,
Should stand astonished, forgetting natural offspring;
Forgetting hunger, forgetting slaughter appointed;
As when Calliope's dear son, sweet harmony singing,
Unto the true consent of his harp-strings tuned in order,
Drew from their places wild beasts and trees by the music.
Swift flowing Hebrus staid all his streams in a wonder,
As if chill coldness frorne had them down to the bottom.
But for I wot too well my slender skill to be nothing;
Here will I quite forswear both verse and muse in an anger,
Lest hap my rudeness disgrace thy glory by praising.

DIGNUM LAUDE VIRUM MUSA VETAT MORI .