Froth

This bubbling gossip here of fops and fools,

Who have no care beyond the coming chance,

Rough-rubs the angry soul to arrogance

And puts puff’d wisdom out of her own rules.

True, knowledge comes on all winds, without schools,

And every folly has her saw: perchance

Some costly gem from silliest spodomance

May be unash’d; and mind has many tools.

But still, love here rains not her heav’nly dew,

Nor friendship soothes the folly-fretted sense;

But pride and ignorance, the empty two,

Strut arm-in-arm to air their consequence,

And toil bleeds tears of gold for idle opulence.