Classic Poem

H E'S pale with rage, to bursting he is nigh enough,
With angry spite he cannot rave or cry enough,
He'd hang himself on any bough that's high enough.
'Tis not my world-wide fame that makes him furious,
Nor my repute at home he holds injurious,
Nor yet my scrolls in form and hue luxurious:
I have a little house — 'tis no aspiring one,
A summer cot, a modest and retiring one;
I buy the mules I ride, instead of hiring one;
Hence all this angry spite, what can one say for it?
What evil curses imprecate and pray for it?
Would my estate were his, then he should pay for it.