BOOK OF GLOOM.
IT is a fault oneself to praise,
And yet 'tis done by each whose deeds
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
Of joy, who fancies that he s wise,
That he, a fool like you, may waste
Th' insipid thanks the world supplies.