A RETORT

As vicious women think all men are knaves,

And shrew-bound gentlemen discourse of slaves;

As reeling drunkards judge the world unsteady

And idlers swear employers ne'er get ready —

Thieves that the constable stole all they had,

The mad that all except themselves are mad;

So, in another's clear escutcheon shown,

Barnes rails at stains reflected from his own;

Prates of “docility,” nor feels the dark

Ring round his neck — the Ralston collar mark.

Back, man, to studies interrupted once,

Ere yet the rogue had merged into the dunce.

Back, back to Yale! and, grown with years discreet,

The course a virgin's lust cut short, complete.

Go drink again at the Pierian pool,

And learn — at least to better play the fool.

No longer scorn the draught, although the font,

Unlike Pactolus, waters not Belmont.