Classic Poem

  Y. With what respect
Yon burgher bows to you.
  A. He is a fool:
He ducks unto my purse, which will not open;
Passing you by, whom radiant youth and love,
And hope and health, (the kingly wine of life,)
And earnest thoughts of noble deeds to come,
Sustain and strengthen. Yet, be not too proud:
For dreams are fading. As you sit beside
The stream that flows into oblivion,
Gathering the golden pebbles from its banks,
Summer will pass, and Autumn, moaning low,
(And you will hear them not;) and suddenly
Down like a curse December's frost will fall,
And strip your strength away, and shrivel you up,
Until you grow the weakly thing that I am.
I cheat men of respect. What have I?—Gold!
The God of pauper spirits: nought beside.
Give me your pity: but respect yourself;
And strive to earn what ought to force respect.