with sober, selfish ease they sip it up;
scious the bounteous meed they well deserve,
they only wonder “some folks” do not starve!
the grave, sage hern thus easy picks his frog,
and thinks the malrd a sad worthless dog.
when disappoi snaps the thread of hope,
when, thro' disastrous night, they darkling grope,
with deaf endurance sluggishly they bear,
and just clude that “fools are fortune's care:”
so, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks,
strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox.
not so the idle muses' mad-cap train,
not such the ws of the
The Poets Progress(7/8)