Book Of Gloom

IT is a fault oneself to praise,
And yet 'tis done by each whose deeds are kind;
And if there's no deceit in what he says,
The good we still as good shall find.
Let, then, ye fools, that wise man taste

Of joy, who fancies that he s wise,
That he, a fool like you, may waste
Th' insipid thanks the world supplies.