Classic Poem

Ye fools, abroad you gaze round,
But strangers still at home;
In vain amusements wand'ring,
From toy to toy you roam.

Or fir'd with lust of lucre,
In busy scenes you toil;
Devising, and devising,
To dig the golden soil.

Ah! what kind voice shall win you,
Yourselves, yourselves, to know?
While thus you shun your bosoms,
How fast your follies grow!

Of wife advice disdainful,
Too knowing to be taught;
You redden at the warning,
Which dares but hint a fault.

Self-love, alas, whenever
You glance upon your heart;
Connives at all your vices,
Or colours o'er with art.

Your pride is conscious merit ;
Ambition, noble flame ;
And wrath, quick sense of honour ;
And av'rice, foresight 's name.

Ill habits thus advancing,
Too high for reason's rule,
Too strong for self-correction,
Go live and die a fool.