SECTION XXVI.
OF FOOLS THAT ARE PASSIONATE AT TRIFLES.
Si vis incolumem, si vis te reddere sanum,
Curas tolle graves, irasci crede profanum.
A stone is heavy, and the sand weighty; but a fool's
wrath is heavier than them both.
Hark, how the boist'rous fool will dash on,
And prove the slave to's idle passion
;
Now execrate, like madman raving,
And stamp as hard as paviers paving;
And all for what?
Why, Nan, his daughter,
Hath brought in pot
Some luke-warm water;
Whereas papa, though long at bristles toiling,
Can never shave them clean, unless 'tis boiling.
Mark how his face, with ire first reddens,
To ashy pale his cheek then deadens;
His inoffensive locks now tearing,
And knuckles too his passion sharing,
Whilst he, with look
Of harden'd sinner,
Blasphemes his cook,
Too late with dinner:
Or, d---n's the stew, 'fore which the maid's been toiling,
Then raves and swears at rump-steak, scorch'd while broiling.
Now hark the bell's loud peal's resounding,
Dire knell! the servants' minds astounding;
Each runs, appall'd, to hear the volley,
Of dread abuse from passion's folly,
And all for what?
Oh mischief subtle,
John hath forgot,
Coals in the scuttle;
Though at that instant might the grate have boasted,
A fire 'fore which an ox might have been roasted.
Sometimes forgetful in his hurry,
He puts his wife in dreadful flurry;
Storms like the roar of ocean's billow,
For why? no night-cap's on his pillow;
While, smiling, this
Her quick response is,
“You judge amiss,
For on your sconce 'tis:”
E'en so for's pen he'll quarrel oft be picking,
While from his ear, the goose's quill's forth sticking.
L'ENVOY OF THE POET.
Passion to madness is so near ally'd,
Thou may'st without it give the wise offence;
From whence this sterling truth can't be deny'd,
Such fools commit felo de se on sense.
THE POET'S CHORUS TO FOOLS.
Come, trim the boat, row on each Rara Avis,
Crowds flock to man my Stultifera Navis.
