Classic Poem

I' M down, good Fate, you've won the race;
Bite deep and break a tooth in me;
Nor spit your poison in my face,
And let me be;
Leave me an hour and come again
With insults new and further pain.

For of your tooth I'll make a pen,
And of your slaver ink, and will
I bring a joy to being then
To race you still:
A laughing child with feathered heels
Who shall outspeed your chariot wheels.