Classic Poem

Happy the man whose heart of such a sort is,
As holds more Buttermilk than Aqua-fortis:
But, Lord! how passionate are certain folk!
How like the Sea, reflecting every form,
So placid; the next instant in a storm,
Dashing against the inoffensive rock;

Mounting towards the skies with such a thunder,
As though it wish'd (the leveller!) to bring under
Sun, moon, and stars, and tear them into tatters! —
Such passions verily are serious matters.

Men in morality should ne'er be idle,
But for those passions make a strong curb-bridle.

When lofty Man doth quarrel with a Pin,
In man resides the folly or the sin;
Not in the brass, by which his finger's spitted:
For with a small philosophy we find,
That, as a Pin is not endowed with mind,
Of malice call'd prepense Pin stands acquitted.

Thus then, his awkwardness must bear the blame;
And thus, to persecute the Pin's a shame.

Many inanimates, as well as Pins,
Suffer for others' fooleries and sins.

How oft a drunken blockhead damns a Post,
That overturns him, breaks his shins or head;
Whose eyes should certainly have viewed the coast,
And have avoided this same Post so dread:
Whereas he should have spread his idle cries,
And only damn'd his own two blinking eyes.