On Fame

FAME, like a wayward girl, will still be coy  
 To those who woo her with too slavish knees,  
But makes surrender to some thoughtless boy,  
 And dotes the more upon a heart at ease;  
She is a Gipsey,—will not speak to those
 Who have not learnt to be content without her;  
A Jilt, whose ear was never whisper’d close,  
 Who thinks they scandal her who talk about her;  
A very Gipsey is she, Nilus—born,  
 Sister—in—law to jealous Potiphar;
Ye love—sick Bards! repay her scorn for scorn;  
 Ye Artists lovelorn! madmen that ye are!  
Make your best bow to her and bid adieu,  
Then, if she likes it, she will follow you.
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