And violate grim prudery's tyrant ties.
With icy finger, she her charge directs,
To view the faithful dial of the sun,
Whose moral tells how tide and time pass on.
See, there--the fated victim of mischance;
Read, in that hollow eye, and alter'd look,
The deep anxiety which gnaws the heart,
Incessant struggling 'gainst a tide of care,
Which wears his life away;--and there, again,
The empty, lucky Fool, who never thought,
Nor ever will, yet lives and smiles, and thrives!
Mark ye, that Ready-reckoner's figured face?
Cold calculation in his thoughtful step;
The heartless wretch, who never trusts his land,
And never is deceived!--And, next him, comes
Laughing Good-nature, with ruddy cheeks,
And welcome look, determined to be pleased.
He comes to ask--or go with friend to dine;
His labour but to dress--to eat, to sleep:
He knows no suffering equal to bad wine.
There--the prig-Parson, with indented hat,
And formal step--demanding your respect--
Yonder, the lovely insect-chasing Child.
His is, indeed, a life of envious joy;
Hope and anticipation, on the wing,
To him no sad realities e'er bring!

And now, the humble Quaker, plain and proud.
Humility, is this, indeed, thy type?
(I know it is not, for I know the man.)