A zone he wore of clattering shells,
And from his lofty cap, where shone
A peacock's plume, there dangled bells
That rung as he came dancing on.
Close after him, a page--in dress
And shape, his miniature express--
An ample basket, filled with store
Of toys and trinkets, laughing bore;
Till, having reached this verdant seat,
He laid it at his master's feet,
Who, half in speech and half in song,
Chanted this invoice to the throng:--
SONG.
Who'll buy?--'tis Folly's shop, who'll buy?--
We've toys to suit all ranks and ages;
Besides our usual fools' supply,
We've lots of playthings, too, for sages.
For reasoners here's a juggler's cup
That fullest seems when nothing's in it;
And nine-pins set, like systems, up,
To be knocked down the following minute.
Who'll buy?--'tis Folly's shop, who'll buy?
Gay caps we here of foolscap make.
For bards to wear in dog-day weather;
Or bards the bells alone may take,
And leave to wits the cap and feather,
Tetotums we've for patriots got,
Who court the mob with antics humble;
Like theirs the patriot's dizzy lot,
A glorious spin, and then--a tumble,
Who'll buy, etc.
Here, wealthy misers to inter,
We've shrouds of neat post-obit paper;
While, for their heirs, we've _quick_silver,
That, fast as they can wish, will caper.
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