Fortune’s Fool Poem by Robert Anderson

Poor Tom last week was thought a dunce,
All wonder'd much at his thick sconce,
Who sat six hours, and spoke but once,

And that indeed was deem'd great impudence.
Rich Tom, this week, all ask his hand,
Dogs, horses, men, doth Tom command;
He talks what none can understand;

Yet all admire this murderer of sense.
Then why will man dame Fortune e'er despise,
Whose gifts oft make the greatest fool seem wise?