Classic Poem

Impatient at another's Sense,
(Self-conscious that he's no Pretence)
Teachy and wayward, ne'er at rest,
Like weaning Child for Mother's Breast;
Display but Reason's pow'rful Light,
His Soul ferments with sore affright;
No Worth Himself — at other's Praise
He pines and sickens out his Days:
Not feeble old, nor Stripling young,
Indecent Language fouls his Tongue;
At ev'ry passing Female Face,
Like Hamlet starts from sitting Place;
Cries, she's d — 'd fine, if very Hag,
Debauchery his florid Brag;
Eat up with Spleen to that Degree,
Sage Hill himself can't set him free.