Good people all, with one accord, Lament for Madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word From those who spoke her praise.
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came, And the puff a dunce, he mistook it for fame; Till his relish grown callous, almost to displease, Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please.
For praise too dearly lov'd, or warmly sought, Enfeebles all internal strength of thought; And the weak soul within itself unblest, Leans for all pleasure on another's breast.
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