Classic Poem

The Satyr Scarabombadon
Pulled periwig and breeches on:
‘Grown old and stiff, this modern dress
Adds monstrously to my distress.
The gout within a hoofen heel
Is very hard to bear; I feel
When crushed into a buckled shoe
The twinge will be redoubled, too.
And when I walk in gardens green
And, weeping, think on what has been,
Then wipe one eye—the other sees
The plums and cherries on the trees.
Small bird-quick women pass me by
With sleeves that flutter airily,
And baskets blazing like a fire
With laughing fruits of my desire:
Plums sunburnt as the King of Spain,
Gold-cheeked as any Nubian,
With strawberries all goldly-freckled,
Pears fat as thrushes and as speckled.
Pursue them? . . . Yes, and squeeze a tear!
“Please spare poor Satyr one, my dear!”
“Be off, sir! Go and steal your own!”
—Alas, poor Scarabombadon,
Trees rend his ruffles, stretch a twig,
Tear off a satyr's periwig!’