Wondrous refiners of philofophy,

Of morals and divinity,

By the new modish system of reducing all to sense,
Against all logick and concluding laws,
Do own th' effects of Providence,
And yet deny the cause.

V.

This hopeful fect, now it begins to fee
How little, very little, do prevail
Their firft and chiefeft force

To cenfure, to cry down, and rail,
Not knowing what, or where, or who you be,
Will quickly take another course :
And, by their never-failing ways

Of folving all appearances they please,

We foon fhall fee them to their ancient methods fall,
And straight deny you to be men, or any thing at all.
I laugh at the grave answer they will make,
Which they have always ready, general, and cheap:
'Tis but to fay, that what we daily meet,
And by a fond mistake

Perhaps imagine to be wondrous wit,

And think, alas! to be by mortals writ,
Is but a croud of atoms justling in a heap,
Which from eternal feeds begun,

Juftling fome thousand years till ripen'd by the fun;
They "re now, juft now, as naturally born,
As from the womb of earth a field of corn.

VI. But

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 guess,

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 some great discovery;

And fcorn it when 'tis found.

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

That feeds the huge unequal ftream.
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, still doat, on his invisible 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,
Carelefs and ignorant pofterity,

Although they praise the learning and the wit,
And though the title feems to fhow

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 fhould I daub it o'er with tranfitory praise,
And water-colours of these days:

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

Mens' folly, whimfies, and inconftancy,

And by a faint defcription makes them less. 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 greateft fcorn 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 these, 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 sleeping on the fand,
Impatient of all answers, ftrait became

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

Vext at their follies, murmur'd in his ftream;
But, difappointed of his fond defire,

Would vanish in a pyramid of fire.

This furly flippery God, when he defign'd
To furnish his escapes,

Ne'er borrow'd more variety of shapes
Than you to please and satisfy mankind,

And feem (almost) 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 fenfeless 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 ftronger relifh 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 feems a medley of all ages,

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

Of comments and disputes, 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 confpire

To fan th' unhappy fire.

VOL. I.

Cruel unknown! what is it you intend?
Ah! could you, could you hope a poet
C

for