Classic Poem

Sir, or great grandsire, whose vast bulk may be
A burying place for all your pedigree;
Thou moving Coloss, for whose goodly face
The Rhine can hardly make a looking glass:
What piles of victuals had thou need to chew,
Ten woods or marrets throats were not enough.
Dwarf was he, whose wife's bracelet fit his thumb;
It would not on thy little finger come:
If Jove in getting Hercules spent three
Nights, he might spend fifteen in getting thee:
What name or title suits thy greatness, thou,
Aldiboronifuscophonio?
When giants warred with Jove, hadst thou been one,
Where others oaks, thou would'st have mountains thrown;
Wer'st thou but sick, what help could e'er be wrought,
Unless physicians posted down thy throat;
Were thou to die, and Xerxes living, he
Would not pare Athos for to cover thee;
Were thou t' embalm, the surgeons needs must scale
Thy body, as when labourers dig a whale.
Great Sir! a people kneaded up in one!
We'll weigh thee by ship burdens, not by th' stone.
What tempests mightst thou raise, what whirlwinds when
Thou breath'st, thou great Leviathan of men!
Bend but thine eye, a countryman would swear
A regiment of Spaniards quartered there:
Smooth but thy brow, they'll say there were a plain
T' act York and Lancaster once o'er again!
That pocket pistol of the queen's might he
Thy pocket pistol, sans hyperbole;
Abstain from garrisons, since thou may eat
The Turk's or Mogul's titles at a bit:
Plant some new land, which ne'er will empty be,
If she enjoy her savages in thee:
Get from amongst us, since we only can
Appear like skulls march'd o'er by Tamerlane.