 | Trifles |  |
But tho' to tire the ear's sufficient curse,
To tire one's patience is a plague still worse.
Plato, a formal sage, debates with care,
A strong opponent, take him up who dare.
His words are grave, deliberate, and cool,
He looks so wise—'tis pity he's a fool.
If he asserts, tho' what no man can doubt,
He'll bring ten thousand proofs to make it out.
This, this, and this—is so, and so, and so;
And therefore, therefore,—that, and that, you know,
Circles no angles have; a square has four:
A square's no circle therefore—to be sure.
The sum of Prato's wond'rous wisdom is,
This is not that, and therefore, that not this.
To tire one's patience is a plague still worse.
Plato, a formal sage, debates with care,
A strong opponent, take him up who dare.
His words are grave, deliberate, and cool,
He looks so wise—'tis pity he's a fool.
If he asserts, tho' what no man can doubt,
He'll bring ten thousand proofs to make it out.
188
And therefore, therefore,—that, and that, you know,
Circles no angles have; a square has four:
A square's no circle therefore—to be sure.
The sum of Prato's wond'rous wisdom is,
This is not that, and therefore, that not this.
| Trifles | |