Classic Poem

At your approach the neighbours flee,
What is the cause that makes them flout you,
And that wherever you may be
A desert seems to spread about you?

A tigress of her whelps bereft
May fill the bravest heart with terror;
Untouched the basking snake is left
And handling scorpions is an error;

But you provide a peril worse —
'Tis this, you overact the poet;
When you persist in reading verse,
Could any patience undergo it?

For though I run or stand or sit
With verse my ears are still blockaded;
Aye, at the baths I must submit,
My privy chambers are invaded,

You stop me on my way to dine,
Then wearied by your droning numbers
My seat at table I resign —
I fall asleep — you break my slumbers.

Observe the evil that you do.
Though good, men hold you as pernicious:
And thus an upright bore like you
Makes even virtue look suspicious.