Classic Poem

Of an eloquent race you're reviving the name,
And let not your house lie forgotten by fame:
Minerva's good votaries ever attend you
And sages delight their wise leisure to lend you.
Other youths with a thick-eared old boxer you see
And a filthy masseur takes his scarcely-earned fee;
But you don't prepare for your bath with a ball —
Whether bladder or feather or solid withal —
Nor strike with blunt sword at some poor dummy image,
Nor darting with speed snatch the ball from the scrimmage,
Nor yet waste your time at the wrestler's toil
With arms set akimbo all covered with oil.
You go for a run where the clear Virgo flows
Or where Europe's bull in the portico shows.
To trifle with games in a square, I confess,
When one might take a run, is just sheer idleness.