Classic Poem

Plato , and Socrates were not
So happy, as the empty Sot ,
Whose Vanity still pleads his Cause ,
Who never doubts , or makes a Pause ;
But firmly thinks that best , he has ,
And smiles at ev'ry Thing, he says .
If Hamor finds, his Voice is good,
His wretched Daubs well understood;
If Bays will ne'er suspect his Wit ,
Spite of the Hisses from the Pit ,
Must it not fairly be confest,
Whate'er we think, that these are blest?
Thrice happy Fools! whose bare Pretence
Supplies the Want of Excellence:
And who, tho' Nature gave ye none,
Can stamp Perfections of your own,
Which, like base Coin in some poor State,
Passes at home . O equal Fate !
Philosophers deduce, from hence,
The Mildness of your Providence ;
For shou'd you let these Coxcombs see
Their naked , true Deformity ,
They'd break the Mirrour , like the Ape ,
Who started at his filthy Shape.