Who can replevin all his own
From his platonic debtors—
From plagiarists perchance unknown
Who steal his thoughts or letters?
His property is small or great
As it is worth the using,
And such a tribute to his rate
Makes property worth losing.
To say or do a thing that’s fine,
Which makes the world the wiser,
Should be a royalty divine
To any but a miser.
Their pound of flesh let Shylocks sue
And bank in figures seven—
Our noblest own is what is due
In goods beyond replevin.