Classic Poem

Dear Benedetto, — not to let you pine
For want of news of me, this comes to say,
My fever grows upon me day by day,
And bread I can as little bear as wine;
Judge how I must detest your turkey and chine.
At night, when I would sleep, to my dismay
I hear the gnats arming them for the fray,
And all they burn for, are these cheeks of mine.
Dread note of preparation! hideous hum!
First comes in air an awful mustering sound,
Fit to have scared Orlando from his blast;
Then, raging, upon eyes, nose, mouth, they come,
Each trumping louder betwixt wound and wound.
Setting my wits and very soul aghast.
Fairly made mad at last,
I start up in the bed, and to the rout
Put them too well, by cuffing my own snout;
They, madder, turn about,
And rage as if they said, — " You rout us! — Never."
I sit on, cuffing myself worse than ever:
Desp'rate and vain endeavour!
They quit me not till morn. By heav'ns! I think
'Twould make a very statue snort and blink.