THE POET'S CHORUS TO FOOLS. Come, trim the boat, row on each Rara Avis, Crowds flock to man my Stultifera Navis. Imperial Cæsar, dead, and turn'd to clay, SECTION XLVI. OF FOOLS WHO THINK NONE SO WISE AS THEM SELVES. Άλλων, ιατρός αντος έλκεσι βρων. Stultus, nisi quod ipse facit nil rectum putat. HERE'S One who boasts conceit refin'd, By Providence, To his wise pate had been consign'd; In argument he'll knock you down, With yes or no, It must be so, * And if presumptive you dare frown; * This species of egotism is as frequent in society as any other epidemic folly with which it is assailed, and well merits the following quotation from Terences Homine imperito nunquam quidquid injustius Take special care, he'll butt with horns of Bos, For doubting one as famous as Delphos.* Mark, ye hist countenance and air;` For living brass, While, bold and arrogant, his stare, * The poet, in the above line, alludes to the celebrated Delphian Oracle of Apollo, which was supposed by the ancients, never to fail, and was delivered by a virgin named Pythia or Phabus. Whether the Bos in the foregoing line, alludes to the brazen bull presented by the tyrant of Agrigentum to this famed temple, we are at a loss to conjecture; from the emptiness, however, of the skull of that brazen animal, and from the brassy impudence of his countenance, it is shrewdly surmised, that the poetaster might have intended it in allusion to the properties of that species of fools who were then under his consideration. The vanity of Nero the emperor, is recorded by many historians; who needs must pique himself on being the best actor and musician in Rome; and in order that he might have no competitor, he caused the finest performer of that time (who had acquired great fame) to be murdered; and with respect to his musical talents, the burning of the then capital of the universe, was deemed but a fit accompaniment to one of his solos on the fiddle. Bespeaks to all that he's the cherish'd elf, As the fierce tenant of some den, By all abhorr'd, This fool's turn'd forth from haunts of men; L'ENVOY OF THE POET. If thou feel'st conscious of thy skill, be wise, * Notwithstanding the gratification which these conceited fools may derive from their overbearing impertinence, it is, nevertheless, impossible, but that they must frequently experience the keenness of rebuke, and suffer a degree of mental pain on witnessing the marked hatred of such as are tortured in their society; during such moments, therefore, I would recommend to their consideration, these lines of our bard, so truly applicable to their situation: Why, all delights are vain; but that most vain, U |