Classic Poem

May that proud knave, who in his loathly verses
The fame of noble dame and lord asperses,
Trudge through the slums outcast from every hovel,
From every haunt where clamorous beggars grovel:
So may he crave the crusts of curs rejected,
Without a den to lurk in, unprotected;
Through the long dripping winter may he quiver
'Mid endless biting blasts to make him shiver,
Acclaim as blest, and envy every mortal
Borne out to enter Orcus' gloomy portal;
Long may he pray that lagging death may ease him,
And, when the thread is spun ere Pluto seize him,
Hear dogs that howl to gnaw his bones and tear them,
See carrion birds and wave his rags to scare them;
And then may hell of suffering never purge him,
But Aeacus with bitter lashes scourge him,
With Sisyphus let him lie crushed and bleeding,
With Tantalus be parched 'mid waves receding,
Bear every pang that poets have reported;
And when the furies have the truth extorted,
May conscience make more bitter all his curses,
And he confess ‘'twas I that wrote the verses.’