We Think Our Fathers Fools, So Wise

Chiefs Who No More In Bloody Fights Engage, But Wise Through Time, And Narrative With Age, In Summer-days Like Grasshoppers Rejoice - A Bloodless Race, That Send A Feeble Voice.

And Hence One Master-passion In The Breast, Like Aaron's Serpent, Swallows Up The Rest.

Then From The Mint Walks Forth The Man Of Rhyme, Happy To Catch Me, Just At Dinner-time.

No, Make Me Mistress To The Man I Love; If There Be Yet Another Name More Free More Fond Than Mistress, Make Me That To Thee!

Fondly We Think We Honor Merit Then, When We But Praise Ourselves In Other Men.