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.

1881-2.

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