Classic Poem

The first, their water turn'd to blood,
Their blood-thirst to requite.
The second, caus'd vile frogs to crowd,
To venge their croaking spite.

The third, turned all their dust to lice,
Their sordid ways to wreck.
The fourth, made swarms of flies arise,
Their soaring pride to check.

The fifth, their beasts with murrain kill'd
To smite their brutish kin.
The sixth, with boils their bodies fill'd,
To scourge the blains of sin.

The seventh, destroy'd with fire and hail,
Their fury to assuage.
The eighth, made locusts fierce prevail,
To recompense their rage.

The ninth, thick darkness on them drew,
For doubling Isra'l's tales.
The tenth, all Egypt's first-born slew,
For murd'ring Isra'l's males.