I've read, my friend, of Dioclesian, And many another noble Grecian, Who wealth and palaces resigned, In cots the joys of peace to find;
Maximian's meal of turnip-tops ( Disgusting food to dainty chops ) I've also read of, without wonder; But such a cursed egregious blunder,
As that a man of wit and sense Should leave his books to hoard up pence,— Forsake the loved Aonian maids For all the petty tricks of trades,
I never, either now, or long since, Have heard of such a peace of nonsense; That one who learning's joys hath felt, And at the Muse's altar knelt,
Should leave a life of sacred leisure To taste the accumulating pleasure; And, metamorphosed to an alley duck, Grovel in loads of kindred muck.
Oh!‘ t is beyond my comprehension! A courtier throwing up his pension,— A lawyer working without a fee,— A parson giving charity,—
A truly pious methodist preacher,— Are not, egad, so out of nature. Had nature made thee half a fool, But given thee wit to keep a school,
I had not stared at thy backsliding: But when thy wit I can confide in, When well I know thy just pretence To solid and exalted sense;
When well I know that on thy head Philosophy her lights hath shed, I stand aghast! thy virtues sum to, I wonder what this world will come to!
Yet, whence this strain? shall I repine That thou alone dost singly shine? Shall I lament that thou alone, Of men of parts, hast prudence known?
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