Classic Poem

With doubt, joy, apprehension, almost dumb,
To face this awful court once more I come.
Lest Benedick should suffer by my fear,
Before he enters I myself am here.
I'm told (what flattery to my heart!) that you
Have wished to see me, nay have pressed it too.
Alas, 'twill prove another Much Ado!
I, like a boy who long has truant played,
No lessons got, no exercises made,
On bloody Monday takes his fearful stand,
And often eyes the birchen-sceptred hand.
'Tis twice twelve years since first the stage I trod,
Enjoyed your smiles and felt the critic's rod.
A very ninepin I, my stage-life through,
Knocked down by wits, set up again by you.
In four-and-twenty years the spirits cool.
Is it not long enough to play the fool?
To prove it is, permit me to repeat
What late I heard in passing through the street,
A youth of parts, with ladies by his side,
Thus cocked his glass and through it shot my pride.
" 'Tis he, by Jove, grown quite a clumsy fellow.
He's fit for nothing but a Punchinello. "
" O yes, for comic scenes — Sir John — no further.
He's much too fat for battles, rapes and murder. "
Worn in the service, you my faults will spare,
And make allowance for the wear and tear.
The Chelsea pensioner, who, rich in scars,
Fights o'er in prattle all his former wars,
Though past the service, may the young ones teach
To march, present, to fire and mount the breach.
Should the drum beat to arms, at first he'll grieve
For wooden leg, lost eye and armless sleeve;
Then cocks his hat, looks fierce and swells his chest:
" 'Tis for my King, and, zounds, I'll do my best! "