“A man so various, that he seem’d to be,
Not one, but all mankind’s epitome:
Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong,
His every thing by starts, and nothing long:
But in the course of one revolving moon,
Was chymist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon.
In squandering wealth was his peculiar art,
Nothing went unrewarded, but desert:
Beggar’d by fools, when still he found too late,
He had his jest, and they—had his estate.”