Poems, moral and descriptive By the late Richard Jago ... (Prepared for the press, and improved by the author, before his death.) To which is added, some account of the life and writings of Mr. Jago |
 |
 |
|
|
 | Poems, moral and descriptive |  |
143
Nature, with lib'ral hand, dispenses
Her apparatus of the senses,
In articles of gen'ral use,
Nerves, sinews, muscles, bones profuse.
Distinguishing her fav'rite race
With form erect, and featur'd face:
The flowing hair, the polish'd skin—
But, for the furniture within,
Whether it be of brains, or lead,
What matters it, so there's a head?
For wisest noddle seldom goes,
But as 'tis led by corp'ral nose.
Nor is it thinking much, but doing,
That keeps our tenements from ruin.
And hundreds eat, who spin, or knit,
For one that lives by dint of wit.
Her apparatus of the senses,
In articles of gen'ral use,
Nerves, sinews, muscles, bones profuse.
Distinguishing her fav'rite race
With form erect, and featur'd face:
The flowing hair, the polish'd skin—
But, for the furniture within,
144
What matters it, so there's a head?
For wisest noddle seldom goes,
But as 'tis led by corp'ral nose.
Nor is it thinking much, but doing,
That keeps our tenements from ruin.
And hundreds eat, who spin, or knit,
For one that lives by dint of wit.
The sturdy thresher plies his flail,
And what to this doth wit avail?
Who learns from wit to press the spade?
Or thinks 'twou'd mend the cobler's trade?
The pedlar, with his cumb'rous pack,
Carries his brains upon his back.
Some wear them in full-bottom'd wig,
Or hang them by with queue, or pig.
Reduc'd, till they return again,
In dishabille, to common men.
Then why, my friend, is wit so rare?
That sudden flash, that makes one stare!
A meteor's blaze, a dazzling shew!
Say what it is, for well you know.
Or, if you can with patience hear
A witless Fable, lend an ear.
And what to this doth wit avail?
Who learns from wit to press the spade?
Or thinks 'twou'd mend the cobler's trade?
The pedlar, with his cumb'rous pack,
Carries his brains upon his back.
Some wear them in full-bottom'd wig,
Or hang them by with queue, or pig.
Reduc'd, till they return again,
In dishabille, to common men.
Then why, my friend, is wit so rare?
That sudden flash, that makes one stare!
A meteor's blaze, a dazzling shew!
Say what it is, for well you know.
145
A witless Fable, lend an ear.
| Poems, moral and descriptive | |