Canst thou be silent? No; for Wit is thine;
And Wit talks most, when least she has to say,
And Reason interrupts not her career.
She’ll say—that mists above the mountains rise;
And, with a thousand pleasantries, amuse;
She’ll sparkle, puzzle, flutter, raise a dust, 1230
And fly conviction, in the dust she raised.
Wit, how delicious to man’s dainty taste!
’Tis precious, as the vehicle of sense;
But, as its substitute, a dire disease.