Alexander Brome (Александр Бром)
A Friend
FAin would I find out a friend that is true; That we may live freely together: But men are grown false, and friends are but few, And as fickle in mind as a feather. That man I suspect, who much zeal does pretend, And will not our frailties connive at, His looks and his words are both fram'd to his end; While some underhand-cheat he does drive at. He that still laughs in tune, and smiles in my face, And appears very courteous and civil; If I trust him but once, I shall find him as base And perfidious as the Devil. A man of a niggardly soul I despise, His Avarice makes him slavish; For he that his wealth more than honour doth prize, Will not only be sordid but knavish. He that soon grows rich from a beggerly life, Is not for my conversation; He's as proud as a Presbyter Parson's wife, Or a new made corporation. But he that is generous, jolly and wise, Good natur'd and just to any one, Such person I love and extol to the skies; He shall be my friend and companion.
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