The hasty gentleman, whose blood runs high, Who picks a quarrel, if you step awry, Who can't a jest, a hint, or look endure,— What is 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? They 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; 'T is 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.
EPITAPH FOR THE TOMBSTONE ERECTED OVER THE MARQUIS OF ANGLESEA'S LEG, LOST AT WATERLOO.
Here rests, and let no saucy knave Presume to sneer and laugh, To learn that moldering in the grave Is laid a British Calf.
For he who writes these lines is sure, That those who read the whole Will find such laugh was premature, For here, too, lies a sole.
And here five little ones repose, Twin born with other five, Unheeded by their brother toes, Who all are now alive.
A leg and foot to speak more plain, Rests here of one commanding; Who though his wits he might retain, Lost half his understanding.