Classic Poem

With dolts I dance not—no! nor incense bear
To those who seem of gold, but are of clay;
Nor grasp his proffered hand who, when he may
To very tatters my fair name will tear;
Nor do I bow before the harlots fair
Who shameless of their shame do make display;
Nor shall I tug with all the mob, when they
Harness themselves to their own idol's car.
Of course I know that the stout oak must fall,
While supple-bending river reeds stand fast
After, just as before the tempest-blast.
But what's the good of such a reed at all?
What luck! to serve some coxcomb for a prop,
Or help to dust the garments of a fop!