Classic Poem

I.

Tom and his Muse, on ev'ry Theme
Of Rhime and Reason gull us;
Each of an opposite Extream,
He full of Fire, she clogg'd with Phlegm,
They both conspire to lull us.

II.

Swift rolls his Tongue its straggling Course,
His Pegasus is jaded;
Yet he, too fond of his own Curse,
Takes Muse for better or for worse,
Altho' her Charms be faded,

III.

So have I seen fast bound to clog,
To which his ill Stars joyn'd him,
A pert Baboon contented jog,
Play with his Chain, and hug the Log
He could not leave behind him.