Classic Poem

With half an eye
Your riddle I spy.
I observe your wicket
Hemmed in by a thicket,
And whatever passes
Is strained through glasses.
You say it is quiet,
I flatly deny it:
It wanders about,
Without stirring out,
No passion so weak
But gives it a tweak;
Love, joy, and devotion
Set it always in motion.
And as for the tragic
Effects of its magic,
Which you say it can kill,
Or revive at its will,
The dead are all sound
And revive above ground,
After all you have writ,
It cannot be wit.
Which plainly does follow,
Since it flies from Apollo.
Its cowardice such,
It cries at a touch,
'Tis a perfect milksop,
Grows drunk with a drop.
Another great fault,
It cannot bear salt;
And a hair can disarm
It of every charm.