And break my needful rest, and bring me ruth.
Oh! virulent marauder, thou art a bore in truth,
And who, that smarts beneath thy awful bite,
And poisonous delving, but will, forsooth,
Think that sage poet may have erred a mite,
Who ably sang in ages past, “Whatever is, is right.”
I’ll place thee foremost in the swarm of those
Tormenting insects that plague mankind;
Yet greater craven from the earth ne’er rose,
Than thou, mute robber of my peace of mind.