Magic – Ovid

YE 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 azured vault 
Set roaring water; to the dread rattling thunder 
Have I given fire, and rifted Jove’s stout oak 
With his own bolt; the strong-based promontory 
Have I made a 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.