You oftentimes can mark upon the street The gilded toy whom fashion idolizes Heartless and fickle, swelled with self-conceit, Avoiding alway what good sense advises. Who ?utters like the butter?y while burns his sun Nor afterwards is missed when life is done. Clouds turn with every wind about They keep us in suspense and doubt' Yet oft perverse, like woman-kind, Are seen to scud against the wind.