Works of the late Doctor Benjamin Franklin/Paper: a Poem
PAPER: A POEM.
SOME wit of old—ſuch wits of old there were—
Whoſe hints ſhow'd meaning, whoſe alluſions care,
By one brave ſtroke to mark all human-kind,
Call'd clear blank paper ev'ry infant mind;
When ſtill, as opening ſenſe her dictates wrote,
Fair virtue put a ſeal, or vice a blot.
The thought was happy, pertinent, and true;
Methinks a genius might the plan puſue.
I (can you pardon my preſumption), I—
No wit, no genius, yet for once will try.
Various the papers various wants produce,
The wants of faſhion, elegance, and uſe,
Men are as various: and, if right I ſcan,
Each ſort of paper repreſents ſome man.
Pray note the fop—half powder and half lace—
Nice, as a bandbox were his dwelling-place:
He's he gilt-paper, which apart you ſtore,
And lock from vulgar hands in the ’ſcrutoire.
Mechanics, ſervants, farmers, and ſo forth,
Are copy-paper, of inferior worth;
Leſs priz'd, more uſeful, for your deſk decreed,
Free to all pens, and prompt at ev'ry need.
The wretch whom av'rice bids to pinch and ſpare.
Starve, cheat, and pilfer, to enrich an heir,
Is coarſe brown paper; ſuch as pedlars chooſe
To wrap up wares, which better men will uſe.
Take next the miſer's contraſt, who deſtroys
Health, fame, and fortune, in a round of joys.
Will any paper match him? Yes, throughout,
He’s a true ſinking-paper, paſt all doubt.
The retail politician's anxious thought
Deems this ſide always right, and that ſtark nought;
He foams with cenſure; with applauſe he raves—
A dupe to rumours, and a tool of knaves;
He'll want no type his weakneſs to proclaim,
While ſuch a thing as fools-cap has a name.
The hafty gentleman, whofe blood runs high.
Who picks a quarrel, if you ſtep awry,
Who can't a jeſt, or hint, or look endure:
What's he? What? Touch-paper to be ſure.
What are our poets, take them as they fall,
Good, bad, rich, poor, much read, not read at all?
Them and their works in the ſame claſs you'll find;
They are the mere waſte-paper of mankind.
Obſerve the maiden, innocently ſweet,
She's fair white-paper, an unſullied ſheet;
On which the happy man whom fate ordains,
May write his name, and take her for his pains.
One inſtance more, and only one I'll bring;
Tis the great man who ſcorns a little thing,
Whoſe thoughts, whoſe deeds, whoſe maxims are his own,
Formed on the feelings of his heart alone:
True genuine royal-paper is his breaſt;
Of all the kinds moſt precious, pureſt, beſt.