Clown

A clownish mien, a voice with rustic sound, And stupid eyes, that ever lov'd the ground; The ruling rod, the father's forming care, Were exercis'd in vain on wit's despair; The more inform'd, the less he understood, And deeper sunk by flound'ring in the mud. His corn and cattle were his only care; And his supreme delight a country fair. A quarter-staff, which he ne'er could forsake, Hung half before, and half behind his back. He trudg'd along, unknowing what he sought, And whistled, as he went, for want of thought.