Page:Works of the Late Doctor Benjamin Franklin (1793).djvu/224

 

The retail politician's anxious thought
Deems this ſide always right, and that ſtark nought;
He foams with cenſure; with applauſe he raves—
A dupe to rumours, and a tool of knaves;
He'll want no type his weakneſs to proclaim,
While ſuch a thing as fools-cap has a name.

The hafty gentleman, whofe blood runs high.
Who picks a quarrel, if you ſtep awry,
Who can't a jeſt, or hint, or look endure:
What's he? What? Touch-paper to be ſure.

What are our poets, take them as they fall,
Good, bad, rich, poor, much read, not read at all?
Them and their works in the ſame claſs you'll find;
They are the mere waſte-paper of mankind.

Obſerve the maiden, innocently ſweet,
She's fair white-paper, an unſullied ſheet;
On which the happy man whom fate ordains,
May write his name, and take her for his pains.

One inſtance more, and only one I'll bring;
Tis the great man who ſcorns a little thing,
Whoſe thoughts, whoſe deeds, whoſe maxims are his own,
Formed on the feelings of his heart alone:
True genuine royal-paper is his breaſt;
Of all the kinds moſt precious, pureſt, beſt.