Pray note the fop, half powder and half lace; Nice, as a bandbox were his dwelling-place; He's the _gilt-paper_, which apart you store, And lock from vulgar hands in the 'scrutoire.
Mechanics, servants, farmers, and so forth Are _copy-paper_ of inferior worth; Less prized, more useful, for your desk decreed; Free to all pens, and prompt at every need.
The wretch whom avarice bids to pinch and spare, Starve, cheat, and pilfer, to enrich an heir, Is _coarse brown paper_, such as pedlers choose To wrap up wares, which better men will use.
Take next the miser's contrast, who destroys Health, fame, and fortune in a round of joys; Will any paper match him? Yes, throughout; He's a true _sinking-paper_, past all doubt. The retail politician's anxious thought Deems this side always right, and that stark naught; He foams with censure; with applause he raves; A dupe to rumors and a tool of knaves; He'll want no type, his weakness to proclaim, While such a thing as _foolscap_ has a name.
The hasty gentleman, whose blood runs high, Who picks a quarrel, if you step awry, Who can't a jest, a hint, or look endure,-- What is he?--what? _Touch-paper_, to be sure.
What are our poets, take them as they fall, Good, bad, rich, poor, much read, not read at all? They and their works in the same class you'll find; They are the mere _waste-paper_ of mankind.
Observe the maiden, innocently sweet! She's fair, _white paper_, an unsullied sheet; On which the happy man whom fate ordains May write his name, and take her for his pains.
One instance more, and only one I'll bring; 'T is the great man who scorns a little thing; Whose thoughts, whose deeds, whose maxims, are his own, Formed on the feelings of his heart alone, True, genuine, _royal paper_ is his breast; Of all the kinds most precious, purest, best.
FOR THE TOMBSTONE ERECTED OVER THE MARQUIS OF ANGLESEA'S LEG, LOST AT WATERLOO.
Here rests, and let no saucy knave Presume to sneer and laugh, To learn that moldering in the grave Is laid a British Calf.
For he who writes these lines is sure, That those who read the whole Will find such laugh was premature, For here, too, lies a sole.
And here five little ones repose, Twin born with other five, Unheeded by their brother toes, Who all are now alive.