Wit and Reason met one day,
While a smiling sky was o'er them,
And each having much to say,
They took the path that lay before them.
But Wit very soon began
To unlace his shining quiver,
And whether passed boy, or man,
Or girl, egad a dart he'd give her.
" Thou fool, " says Reason, " sure as fate,
" Wit, before you're old you'll rue it;
" For your quiver, 'twill not be late,
" Ere you'll get completely through it.
" Then what a pretty sight 'twill be,
" To see thee on the turf extended,
" With none to smile, or comfort thee,
" And every radiant shaft expended. "
" Oh, trash," says Wit; " do you know, Reason,
" I always took ye for a fool,
" Your words, they're always out of season,
" They're warm , just when I wish them cool .
" To shew how much you're out in this,
" Behold my quiver's deep'ning cup,
" Though fast they fly, yet still, oh! bliss,
" Fresh darts you see are springing up.
" This, your wise head could never know,
" Or from your friend, Experience, gather;
" For Love inform'd me long ago,
" He found you blockheads altogether.
" Indeed, " says Reason, " 'twas uncivil
" In Love to tell that tale to thee;
" For Love had been pitch'd to the D — i
" Long since, had it not been for me.
" 'Tis true the boy would never be
" By me directed in his flight,
" So few there were amaz'd to see,
" The lad so seldom in the right.
" For oft, O Wit, as if in spite,
" He'd seek the place I told him not
" To touch; and there would he alight,
" And ramble o'er the warned spot.
" But when he found that he was wrong,
" And all his gambols out of season,
" Believe me, Wit, it was not long,
" Ere Love came crying back to Reason .
" And so 'twill be with thee, my boy,
" When wintry winds shall blow repelling,
" And clouds shall dim each tint of joy,
" That glads thy little sunny dwelling. "
Says Wit " Now, Reason, you or I
" Must be a fool; but, to my thinking,
" You've felt yon warm beam in the sky,
" And have indulg'd yourself in drinking.
" What? Wit return with tearful eyes,
" To her, he leaves so proudly scorning?
" Sooner shall light forsake the skies,
" Reason, you're mad! and so — good morning."
While a smiling sky was o'er them,
And each having much to say,
They took the path that lay before them.
But Wit very soon began
To unlace his shining quiver,
And whether passed boy, or man,
Or girl, egad a dart he'd give her.
" Thou fool, " says Reason, " sure as fate,
" Wit, before you're old you'll rue it;
" For your quiver, 'twill not be late,
" Ere you'll get completely through it.
" Then what a pretty sight 'twill be,
" To see thee on the turf extended,
" With none to smile, or comfort thee,
" And every radiant shaft expended. "
" Oh, trash," says Wit; " do you know, Reason,
" I always took ye for a fool,
" Your words, they're always out of season,
" They're warm , just when I wish them cool .
" To shew how much you're out in this,
" Behold my quiver's deep'ning cup,
" Though fast they fly, yet still, oh! bliss,
" Fresh darts you see are springing up.
" This, your wise head could never know,
" Or from your friend, Experience, gather;
" For Love inform'd me long ago,
" He found you blockheads altogether.
" Indeed, " says Reason, " 'twas uncivil
" In Love to tell that tale to thee;
" For Love had been pitch'd to the D — i
" Long since, had it not been for me.
" 'Tis true the boy would never be
" By me directed in his flight,
" So few there were amaz'd to see,
" The lad so seldom in the right.
" For oft, O Wit, as if in spite,
" He'd seek the place I told him not
" To touch; and there would he alight,
" And ramble o'er the warned spot.
" But when he found that he was wrong,
" And all his gambols out of season,
" Believe me, Wit, it was not long,
" Ere Love came crying back to Reason .
" And so 'twill be with thee, my boy,
" When wintry winds shall blow repelling,
" And clouds shall dim each tint of joy,
" That glads thy little sunny dwelling. "
Says Wit " Now, Reason, you or I
" Must be a fool; but, to my thinking,
" You've felt yon warm beam in the sky,
" And have indulg'd yourself in drinking.
" What? Wit return with tearful eyes,
" To her, he leaves so proudly scorning?
" Sooner shall light forsake the skies,
" Reason, you're mad! and so — good morning."