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The Bore
Ah, prithee, friend, if them hast aught
Of love and kind regard for me,
Tell not yon bore the stories droll
That yesternight I told to thee.
Nor tell him stories of thine own,
Nor chestnut of antiquitee;
Nor quip nor crank, nor anything
If thou hast aught of love for me.
For sense of humour hath he none,
No gift for telling tales hath he;
Yet thinks himself, within his heart,
A wit of wondrous drolleree.
And in the golden summer-time
With ear a-cock he roameth free,
Collecting quibble, quip, and crank;
And anecdotes collecteth he.
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