This, books can do-nor this alone; they give New views to life, and teach us how to live; They soothe the grieved, the stubborn they chastise; Fools they admonish, and confirm the wise. Their aid they yield to all: they never shun The man of sorrow, nor the wretch undone; Unlike the hard, the selfish, and the proud, They fly not sullen from the suppliant crowd; Nor tell to various people various things, But show to subjects, what they show to kings.
Oh, rather give me commentators plain, Who with no deep researches vex the brain; Who from the dark and doubtful love to run, And hold their glimmering tapers to the sun.
A club there is of smokers--dare you come To that close, clouded, hot, narcotic room? When, midnight past, the very candles seem Dying for air, and give a ghastly gleam; When curling fumes in lazy wreaths arise, And prosing topers rub their winking eyes.
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