Classic Poem

Whoe'er offends at some unlucky time,
Slides into verse, and bitches in a rhyme;
Sacred to ridicule, his whole life long,
And the sad burden of some merry song.
Pope

Austerio, an insipid, senseless old wretch,
Who all the whole morn in his bed lies a snoring,
By cheating and lying has made himself rich,
And spends the whole night o'er his papers a poring.

He tosses, he tumbles, and rolls in his bed,
Like a swine in her stye, or a door on its hinges;
When his landlady calls him, he lifts up his head,
D—ns her haste—rubs his eyes, and most lazily whinges.

Then groans out, “Bring here my warm'd breeches “and shirts,”
And launches one dirty bare leg from the sheeting;
Cleans his jaws from a deluge of ugly brown squirts;
Draws a chair, and prepares, gracious heaven! for eating.

All day with a fist in each pocket he walks,
With the air of a goose, from one shop to another;
Of caption and horning eternally talks,
For he'd d—n to a jail and starvation his brother.

Some folk, ere they swear to the value or price,
Consult with their conscience, left they prove uncivil;
But——, when he sells (for he ne'er was too nice)
Confers with his rev'rend old partner—the devil.

If Horns with a grin whisper into his ear,
“My boy, raise thyarm, or by Jove, they'll us cozen;
By the heav'ns, or earth, or by any thing swear”—
He'll swear on oath on oath for a sixpence a dozen.