Classic Poem

While honour droops, your argument
Brings you the profits of your trade
And nothing mars your foul content
Where truth's a shade.

And we, sad wisdom, are but dumb
Herds of the waste, until again
The angels of persuasion come
To govern men.

If you should prosper for a year,
Or if uncalendared the date,
Truth as a patient gospeller
Will wait, and wait.

While we in speculation brood
Your evil tongues are on the mount,
Till every poor unlessoned mood
Comes to account.