| |
|
Were I (who
to my cost already am
One of those strange
prodigious Creatures Man)
A Spirit free, to choose
for my own share,
What Case of Flesh, and Blood, I
pleas'd to weare,
I'd be a Dog, a Monkey, or a Bear,
Or any thing but that vain Animal,
Who is so
proud of being rational.
The senses are too gross,
and he'll contrive
A Sixth, to contradict the other
Five;
And before certain instinct, will preferr
Reason, which Fifty times for one does err.
Reason,
an Ignis fatuus, in the Mind,
Which leaving light of
Nature, sense behind;
Pathless and dang'rous
wandring ways it takes,
Through errors Fenny --
Boggs, and Thorny Brakes;
Whilst the misguided
follower, climbs with pain,
Mountains of Whimseys,
heap'd in his own Brain:
Stumbling from thought to
thought, falls headlong down,
Into doubts boundless
Sea, where like to drown,
Books bear him up awhile,
and make him try,
To swim with Bladders of
Philosophy;
In hopes still t'oretake th'escaping
light,
The Vapour dances in his dazling sight,
Till spent, it leaves him to eternal Night.
Then Old
Age, and experience, hand in hand,
Lead him to
death, and make him understand,
After a search so
painful, and so long,
That all his Life he has been
in the wrong;
Hudled in dirt, the reas'ning Engine
lyes,
Who was so proud, so witty, and so wise.
Pride drew him in, as Cheats, their Bubbles catch,
And makes him venture, to be made a Wretch.
His
wisdom did his happiness destroy,
Aiming to know
that World he shou'd enjoy;
And Wit, was his vain
frivolous pretence,
Of pleasing others, at his own
expence.
For Witts are treated just like common
Whores,
First they're enjoy'd, and then kickt out of
Doores:
The pleasure past, a threatning doubt
remains,
That frights th'enjoyer, with succeeding
pains:
Women and Men of Wit, are dang'rous Tools,
And ever fatal to admiring Fools.
Pleasure
allures, and when the Fopps escape,
'Tis not that
they're belov'd, but fortunate,
And therefore what
they fear, at heart they hate.
But now methinks some
formal Band, and Beard,
Takes me to task, come on
Sir I'm prepar'd.
Then by your favour, any thing
that's writ
Against this gibeing jingling knack
call'd Wit,
Likes me abundantly, but you take care,
Upon this point, not to be too severe.
Perhaps
my Muse, were fitter for this part,
For I profess, I
can be very smart
On Wit, which I abhor with all my
heart:
I long to lash it in some sharp Essay,
But your grand indiscretion bids me stay,
And turns
my Tide of Ink another way.
What rage ferments in
your degen'rate mind,
To make you rail at Reason,
and Mankind?
Blest glorious Man! to whom alone kind
Heav'n,
An everlasting Soul has freely giv'n;
Whom his great Maker took such care to make,
That
from himself he did the Image take;
And this fair
frame, in shining Reason drest,
To dignifie his
Nature, above Beast.
Reason, by whose aspiring
influence,
We take a flight beyond material sense,
Dive into Mysteries, then soaring pierce,
The
flaming limits of the Universe,
Search Heav'n and
Hell, find out what's acted there,
And give the
World true grounds of hope and fear.
Hold mighty
Man, I cry, all this we know,
From the Pathetique
Pen of Ingello;
From Patricks Pilgrim, Stilling
fleets replyes,
And 'tis this very reason I despise.
This supernatural gift, that makes a Myte -- ,
Think he's the Image of the Infinite:
Comparing his
short life, void of all rest,
To the Eternal, and
the ever blest.
This busie, puzling, stirrer up of
doubt,
That frames deep Mysteries, then finds 'em
out;
Filling with Frantick Crowds of thinking Fools,
Those Reverend Bedlams, Colledges, and Schools;
Borne on whose Wings, each heavy Sot can pierce,
The
limits of the boundless Universe.
So charming
Oyntments, make an Old Witch flie,
And bear a
Crippled Carcass through the Skie.
'Tis this exalted
Pow'r, whose bus'ness lies,
In Nonsense, and
impossibilities.
This made a Whimsical Philosopher,
Before the spacious World, his Tub prefer,
And
we have modern Cloysterd Coxcombs, who
Retire to
think, cause they have naught to do.
But thoughts,
are giv'n, for Actions government,
Where Action
ceases, thoughts impertinent:
Our Sphere of Action,
is lifes happiness,
And he who thinks Beyond, thinks
like an Ass.
Thus, whilst against false reas'ning I
inveigh,
I own right Reason, which I wou'd obey:
That Reason that distinguishes by sense,
And gives
us Rules, of good, and ill from thence:
That bounds
desires, with a reforming Will,
To keep 'em more in
vigour, not to kill.
Your Reason hinders, mine helps
t'enjoy,
Renewing Appetites, yours wou'd destroy.
My Reason is my Friend, yours is a Cheat,
Hunger
call's out, my Reason bids me eat;
Perversly yours,
your Appetite does mock,
This asks for Food, that
answers what's a Clock?
This plain distinction Sir
your doubt secures,
'Tis not true Reason I despise
but yours.
Thus I think Reason righted, but for Man,
I'le nere recant defend him if you can.
For all
his Pride, and his Philosophy,
'Tis evident, Beasts
are in their degree,
As wise at least, and better
far than he.
Those Creatures, are the wisest who
attain,
By surest means, the ends at which they aim.
If therefore Jowler, finds, and Kills his Hares,
Better than Meres, supplyes Committee Chairs;
Though
one's a States-man, th'other but a Hound,
Jowler, in
Justice, wou'd be wiser found.
You see how far Mans
wisedom here extends,
Look next, if humane Nature
makes amends;
Whose Principles, most gen'rous are,
and just,
And to whose Moralls, you wou'd sooner
trust.
Be judge your self, I'le bring it to the
test,
Which is the basest Creature Man, or Beast?
Birds, feed on Birds, Beasts, on each other prey,
But Savage Man alone, does Man, betray:
Prest by
necessity, they Kill for Food,
Man, undoes Man, to
do himself no good.
With Teeth, and Claws, by Nature
arm'd they hunt,
Natures allowance, to supply their
want.
But Man, with smiles, embraces, Friendships,
praise,
Unhumanely his Fellows life betrays;
With voluntary pains, works his distress,
Not
through necessity, but wantonness.
For hunger, or
for Love, they fight, or tear,
Whilst wretched Man,
is still in Arms for fear;
For fear he armes, and is
of Armes afraid,
By fear, to fear, successively
betray'd.
Base fear, the source whence his best
passion came,
His boasted Honor, and his dear bought
Fame.
That lust of Pow'r, to which he's such a
Slave,
And for the which alone he dares be brave:
To which his various Projects are design'd,
Which makes him gen'rous, affable, and kind.
For
which he takes such pains to be thought wise,
And
screws his actions, in a forc'd disguise:
Leading a
tedious life in Misery,
Under laborious, mean
Hypocrisie.
Look to the bottom, of his vast design,
Wherein Mans Wisdom, Pow'r, and Glory joyn;
The
good he acts, the ill he does endure,
'Tis all for
fear, to make himself secure.
Meerly for safety,
after Fame we thirst,
For all Men, wou'd be Cowards
if they durst.
And honesty's against all common
sense,
Men must be Knaves, 'tis in their own defence.
Mankind's dishonest, if you think it fair,
Amongst known Cheats, to play upon the square,
You'le be undone --
Nor can weak truth, your
reputation save,
The Knaves, will all agree to call
you Knave.
Wrong'd shall he live, insulted o're,
opprest,
Who dares be less a Villain, than the rest.
Thus Sir you see what humane Nature craves,
Most
Men are Cowards, all Men shou'd be Knaves:
The
diff'rence lyes (as far as I can see)
Not in the
thing it self, but the degree;
And all the subject
matter of debate,
Is only who's a Knave, of the
first Rate?
All this with indignation have I hurl'd,
At the pretending part of the proud World,
Who
swolne with selfish vanity, devise,
False freedomes,
holy Cheats, and formal Lyes
Over their fellow
Slaves to tyrannize.
But if in Court, so just a Man
there be,
(In Court, a just Man, yet unknown to me)
Who does his needful flattery direct,
Not to
oppress, and ruine, but protect;
Since flattery,
which way so ever laid,
Is still a Tax on that
unhappy Trade.
If so upright a States-Man, you can
find,
Whose passions bend to his unbyass'd Mind;
Who does his Arts, and Pollicies apply,
To raise his
Country, not his Family;
Nor while his Pride own'd
Avarice withstands,
Receives close Bribes, from
Friends corrupted hands.
Is there a Church-Man who
on God relyes?
Whose Life, his Faith, and Doctrine
Justifies?
Not one blown up, with vain Prelatique
Pride,
Who for reproof of Sins, does Man deride:
Whose envious heart makes preaching a pretence
With
his obstrep'rous sawcy Eloquence,
To chide at Kings,
and raile at Men of sense.
Who from his Pulpit,
vents more peevish Lyes,
More bitter railings,
scandals, Calumnies,
Than at a Gossipping, are
thrown about,
When the good Wives, get drunk, and
then fall out.
None of that sensual Tribe, whose
Tallents lye,
In Avarice, Pride, Sloth, and
Gluttony.
Who hunt good Livings, but abhor good
Lives,
Whose Lust exalted, to that height arrives,
They act Adultery with their own Wives.
And e're
a score of Years compleated be,
Can from the lofty
Pulpit proudly see,
Half a large Parish, their own
Progeny.
Nor doating Bishop who wou'd be ador'd,
For domineering at the Councel Board;
A greater Fop,
in business at Fourscore,
Fonder of serious Toyes,
affected more,
Than the gay glitt'ring Fool, at
Twenty proves,
With all his noise, his tawdrey
Cloths, and Loves.
But a meek humble Man, of honest
sense,
Who Preaching peace, does practice
continence;
Whose pious life's a proof he does
believe,
Misterious truths, which no Man can
conceive.
If upon Earth there dwell such God-like
Men,
I'le here recant my Paradox to them,
Adore
those Shrines of Virtue, Homage pay,
And with the
Rabble World, their Laws obey.
If such there are,
yet grant me this at least,
Man differs more from
Man, than Man from Beast.
|
|
|
