Liii. The Inconvenience Of Being A Buffoon
'Tis but a sorry sort of praise to be
A droll, the jester of each company,
A raiser of loud laughter, a buffoon,
The sport, and the diversion of the town.
For he that strains to please and humour all,
Into the common shore of talk must sail.
He that would make each merry, must of force,
With ev'ry folly temper his discourse;
Sometimes talk downright bawdry, then defy
The gods, and laugh at dull morality.
For such behaviour, what can you expect
But to be laugh'd at and to lose respect?
You think you're much admir'd, tho' much deceived,
You're neither lov'd, respected, nor believ'd.
For who would trust, love, honour, or commend
The wretch, who for a jest betrays his friend;
To whom there's nought so dear in heav'n or earth,
He would not make the subject of his mirth.