While such a thing as fools-cap has a name.
The hasty gentleman, whose 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;