Classic Poem

Lydia, dic, per omnes. . . .

O Tutor, tell me why it is that thou
From purely paltry motives of exam
Art eager thus to suffocate with cram
Juggins, that like a patient ox, through all
These many seasons partial to the plough,
Now cheweth caviare for the General?
Why wheeleth he no more as once he wheeled
At Polo with his Peers?
Nor standeth now upon Newmarket Heath,
His lonely last gold bit between his teeth,
Ready to lay it on some galled jade,
As frequently he laid
Against the field
In other years?
Why shunneth he the crystal Cam, and why
At Fenner's faileth he to lubricate
His lusty limbs, as when of late
He waxed exceeding proud
To know that none with smarter hand or eye
Could heave the hammer well among the crowd?
Why at the sticks doth he no longer soar,
Barking at every flight his livid shin,
Or at the distance-jump take in
A cubit's length or more?
Why should he skulk, as runs the ancient rune
How that a certain Proctor, who defied
The wary wielders of the wooden spoon,
Played in a privy cupboard hide-and-seek,
For fear his bib, no paler than his cheek,
Should be the death of him in Barnwell's tide?