Whose helpless imbecility
Becomes of every quack the prey,
A weather-cock that’s whirled about
By every gust of creed or doubt;
The slave of lawyer, leech and priest,
Who use him worse than grov’ling beast,
And make him swallow lies or pills,
Just as the mocking demon wills!
Yet, thick as insects on the wing
Must Solons from such seedlings spring!