And well deserves a damnatory word.
You glance at your own faults; your eyes are blear:
You eye your neighbour's; straightway you see clear,
Like hawk or basilisk: your neighbours pry
Into your frailties with as keen an eye.
A man is passionate, perhaps misplaced
In social circles of fastidious taste;
His ill-trimmed beard, his dress of uncouth style,
His shoes ill-fitting, may provoke a smile:
But he's the soul of virtue; but he's kind;
But that coarse body hides a mighty mind.
Now, having scanned his breast, inspect your own,
And see if there no failings have been sown
By Nature or by habit, as the fern
Springs in neglected fields, for men to burn.

True love, we know, is blind: defects that blight
The loved one's charms escape the lover's sight,
Nay, pass for beauties, as Balbinus glows
With admiration of his Hagna's nose.
Ah, if in friendship we e'en did the same,
And virtue cloaked the error with her name!
Come, let us learn how friends at friends should look
By a leaf taken from a father's book.
Has the dear child a squint? at home he's classed
With Venus' self; "her eyes have just that cast:"
Is he a dwarf like Sisyphus? his sire
Calls him "sweet pet," and would not have him higher,
Gives Varus' name to knock-kneed boys, and dubs
His club-foot youngster Scaurus, king of clubs.