Friend, friend, you're warm — why this is downright spleen,
You flout the fat, because yourself are lean:
Yet laugh to see behind the silver mace
Black-brow'd CORNUTUS with his starveling face,
A wretch so worn with penury and pride,
His very bones stand staring thro' his hide.
Why chuse the church, if petulant and vain
You proudly shun the paths that lead to gain,
Yet rack'd with envy, when your brethren rise,
Revile the prudent arts that you despise?
Better some dirty, vile, mechanic trade,
Cobler, or smith — a fortune might be made;
The cross-leg'd wretch, who stitches up the gown,
Is of more worth than half the clerks in town:
And laughs with purse-proud insolence to see
The needy curate's full-sleev'd dignity. —