Classic Poem

CHAIR

What is the reason, Sir, that every day
You load me thus for nothing, hours and hours?
Is this the manner, pray,
Of making love in that cold clime of yours?
You may be heavy for a century,
And get no further with the lovely she.

GENTLEMAN

And hast thou too conspired against me, chair?
I love, 'tis true — too true — and dare not say it:
But surely my whole air,
My looks, my very silence, all display it:
Every one, doubtless, must perceive the fire,
That gnaws and eats me up with fierce desire.

CHAIR

For God's sake, speak then, or you'll never do:
What you do now by the fair lady's side,
I boast of doing too: —
It makes me mad to find you thus tongue-tied, —
To see you sit and stare, like a stuck pig.
You make me speak myself, who am but fig.