What boots it, thy virtue,
⁠What profit thy parts,
While one thing thou lackest,—
⁠The art of all arts?

The only credentials,
⁠Passport to success;
Opens castle and parlor,—
⁠Address, man, Address.

The maiden in danger
⁠Was saved by the swain;
His stout arm restored her
⁠To Broadway again.

​The maid would reward him,—
⁠Gay company come;
They laugh, she laughs with them;
⁠He is moonstruck and dumb.

This clinches the bargain;
⁠Sails out of the bay;
Gets the vote in the senate,
⁠Spite of Webster and Clay;

Has for genius no mercy,
⁠For speeches no heed;
It lurks in the eyebeam,
⁠It leaps to its deed.

Church, market, and tavern,
⁠Bed and board, it will sway.
It has no to-morrow;
⁠It ends with to-day.