The tenants of men's hearts, lodge in their looks

And tongues alone. Where little virtue, with

A costly keeper, passes for a heap;

A heap for none, that has a homely one!

Where fashion makes the law—your umpire which

You bow to, whether it has brains or not.

Where Folly taketh off his cap and bells,

To clap on Wisdom, which must bear the jest!

Where, to pass current you must seem the thing,

The passive thing, that others think, and not