Too much wit makes the world rotten.
His honour rooted in dishonour stood, And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true.
Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love.
Yonder cloud That rises upward always higher, And onward drags a laboring breast, And topples round the dreary west, A looming bastion fringed with fire.
A truth looks freshest in the fashions of the day.
Oh good gray head which all men knew!