MAGIC

by: Ovid (43 BC-17 AD?)

      E elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves,
      And ye that on the sands with printless foot
      Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him
      When he comes back, you demi-puppets that
      By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make,
      Whereof the ewe not bites; and you whose pastime
      Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice
      To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid,
      Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm'd
      The noontide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds,
      And 'twixt the green sea and the azur'd vault
      Set roaring water; to the dread rattling thunder
      Have I given fire, and rifted Jove's stout oak
      With hiw own bolt; the strong-bas'd promontory
      Have I made shake, and by the spurs pluck'd up
      The pine and cedar; graves at my command
      Have wak'd their sleepers, op'd, and let 'em forth
      By my so potent art.
       
      TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

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