Classic Poem

You play, Agathinus, a most risky game,
But you can't get your buckler to fall all the same;
When you shun it, it follows, returning through air,
And lights on your finger-tips, foot, back, or hair.
The stage may be wet with the red saffron rain,
And the boisterous wind make all awnings seem vain,
But unheeded it runs o'er the boy's careless limbs
Not baffled by showers or the breeze's mad whims.
Though you try to go wrong you can't do it at all;
It will need all your skill if the shield is to fall.