Gravity

—I tell thee what, Antonio, There is a sort of men whose visages Do cream and mantle like a standing pond, And do a willful stilness entertain With purpose to be drest in an opinion Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit; As who shou'd say, I am Sir Oracle; And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark. Oh, my Antonio! I do know of those, That therefore only are reputed wise, For saying nothing.

Yet subtle wights (so blind are mortal men, Tho' satire couch them with her keenest pen) For ever will hang out a solemn face, To put off nonsense with a better grace, As pedlars with some hero's head make bold, Illustrious mark! where pins are to be sold. What's the bent brow, or neck in thought reclin'd? The body's wisdom to conceal the mind. A man of sense can artifice disdain, As men of wealth may venture to go plain; And be this truth eternal ne'er forgot, Solemnity's a cover for a sot. I find the fool, when I behold the screen; For 'tis the wise man's int'rest to be seen.