VI.

But as for poor contented me,

Who must my weakness and my ignorance confefs,
That I believe in much I ne'er can hope to fee;
Methinks I'm fatisfy'd to guefs,

That this new, noble, and delightful scene
Is wonderfully mov'd by fome exalted men,
Who have well ftudied in the world's disease
(That epidemic error and depravity,

Or in our judgement or our eye), That what furprizes us can only please. We often fearch contentedly the whole world round, To make fome great discovery;

And fcorn it when 'tis found.

Juft fo the mighty Nile has fuffer'd in its fame,
Becaufe 'tis faid (and perhaps only faid)
We 've found a little inconfiderable head,

That feeds the huge unequal stream.
Confider human folly, and you 'll quickly own,
That all the praises it can give,

By which fome fondly boast they shall for ever live,
Won't pay th' impertinence of being known:
Elfe why fhould the fam'd Lydian king

(Whom all the charms of an ufurped wife and state, With all that power unfelt courts mankind to be great, Did with new unexperienc'd glories wait)

Still wear, ftill doat, on his invifible ring?

VII. Were

VII.

Were I to form a regular thought of Fame,
Which is perhaps as hard t' imagine right
As to paint Echo to the fight;

I would not draw th' idea from an empty name;
Because, alas! when we all die,
Careless and ignorant posterity,

Although they praife the learning and the wit,
And though the title seems to show

The name and man by whom the book was writ,
Yet how fhall they be brought to know,
Whether that very name was he, or you, or I?
Lefs should I daub it o'er with transitory praise,
And water-colours of thefe days:

Thefe days! where e'en th' extravagance of
Is at a lofs for figures to exprefs

Mens' folly, whimsies, and inconftancy,

poetry

And by a faint defcription makes them lefs. Then tell us what is Fame, where fhall we fearch for it? Look where exalted Virtue and Religion fit

Enthron'd with heavenly Wit!

Look where you fee

The greatest scorn of learned vanity!

(And then how much a nothing is mankind! Whose reason is weigh'd down by popular air, Who, by that, vainly talks of baffling death; And hopes to lengthen life by a transfufion of breath,

Which yet whoe'er examines right will find

To be an art as vain as bottling up of wind!) And when you find out thefe, believe true Fame is there,

Far

Far above all reward, yet to which all is due;

And this, ye great unknown! is only known in you. VIII.

The juggling fea-god, when by chance trepan'd
By fome inftructed querift fleeping on the fand,
Impatient of all answers, ftrait became

A ftealing brook, and strove to creep away
Into his native fea,

Vext at their follies, murmur'd in his stream;
But, disappointed of his fond defire,

Would vanish in a pyramid of fire.

This furly flippery God, when he design'd

To furnish his escapes,

Ne'er borrow'd more variety of fhapes

Than you

to please and fatisfy mankind,

And feem (almoft) transform'd to water, flame, and air, So well you answer all phænomena there :

Though madmen and the wits, philofophers and fools, With all that factious or enthufiaftic dotards dream, And all the incoherent jargon of the schools;

Though all the fumes of fear, hope, love, and shame, Contrive to fhock your minds with many a fenfelefs doubt; Doubts where the Delphic God would grope in ignorance and night,

The God of learning and of light

Would want a God himself to help him out.

IX.

Philofophy, as it before us lies,

Seems to have borrow'd fome ungrateful tafte
Of doubts, impertinence, and niceties,
From every age through which it pass'd,

But

But always with a stronger relish of the last.
This beauteous queen, by Heaven defign'd
To be the great original

For man to drefs and polish his uncourtly mind,

In what mock habits have they put her fince the fall!
More oft' in fools and madmens hands than fages,
She seems a medley of all ages,

With a huge fardingale to fwell her fuftian ftuff,
A new commode, a top-knot, and a ruff,
Her face patch'd o'er with modern pedantry,
With a long fweeping train

Of comments and difputes, ridiculous and vain,
All of old cut with a new dye:

How foon have you reftor'd her charms
And rid her of her lumber and her books,
Dreft her again genteel and neat,

And rather tight than great!

How fond we are to court her to our arms!

How much of Heaven is in her naked looks!

X.

Thus the deluding Mufe oft' blinds me to her ways,
And ev'n my very thoughts transfers

And changes all to beauty, and the praise
Of that proud tyrant fex of hers.
The rebel Mufe, alas! takes part

But with my own rebellious heart,

And you with fatal and immortal wit conspire
To fan th' unhappy fire.

Cruel unknown! what is it you intend?

Ah! could you, could you hope a poet for your

VOL. I.

C

friend!

Rather

Rather forgive what my first transport said:

May all the blood, which fhall by woman's fcorn be shed,
Lie upon you and on your childrens' head!

For you (ah! did I think I e'er fhould live to fee
The fatal time when that could be !)
Have ev'n increas'd their pride and cruelty.
Woman feems now above all vanity grown,
Still boafting of her great unknown

Platonic champions, gain'd without one female wile,
Or the vast charges of a fmile;

Which 'tis a fhame to fee how much of late
You've taught the covetous wretches to o'er-rate,
And which they 've now the confciences to weigh
In the fame balance with our tears,

And with fuch fcanty wages pay

The bondage and the flavery of years.

Let the vain fex dream on; the empire comes from us, And, had they common generofity,

They would not use us thus.

Well-though you 've rais'd her to this high degree, Ourselves are rais'd as well as the;

And, fpite of all that they or you can do,

"Tis pride and happiness enough to me
Still to be of the fame exalted fex with you.

XI.

Alas, how fleeting and how vain,

Is ev'n the nobler man, our learning and our wit!
I figh whene'er I think of it:

As at the closing of an unhappy scene

Of