Classic Poem

How spruce you are, my book; how debonair!
Is Tyrian dye the hue for daily wear?
You're decked to see Parthenius? Foolish rover,
Go—and return with not a page turned over:
He pores o'er documents of state alone
And shuns your Muse, and seldom courts his own.
Are lesser folk too mean for you? Nay, go
And seek forthwith Quirinus' portico;
'Tis near, and you will find an idler host
Than Pompey's or Europa's porches boast,
Or that wherein the heartless Jason stands;
Some two or three perhaps, with curious hands,
May shake the bookworms from your trifling page,
That is, should nothing serious engage
Their mind, and they be tired of sporting chat—
Of course you cannot hope to vie with that.