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;
Becaufe, alas! when we all die,
Careless 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 thefe days:

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

Mens' folly, whimfies, and inconftancy,

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 fee

you

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 transfusion 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 some instructed querist 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 stream;
But, disappointed 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 enthusiastic 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 taste
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 swell 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.

her

ways,

Thus the deluding Mufe oft' blinds me to
And ev❜n my very thoughts transfers
And changes all to beauty, and the praife
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.

Cruel unknown! what is it you intend?

Ah! could you, could you hope a poet

VOL. I.

C

Rather

Rather forgive what my firft tranfport faid:

May all the blood, which shall 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 seems 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 smile;

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 such scanty 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 fhe;

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 clofing of an unhappy scene

Of

Of fome great king and conqueror's death,
When the fad melancholy Mufe

Stays but to catch his utmost breath.

I grieve, this nobler work moft happily begun,
So quickly and fo wonderfully carry'd on,
May fall at last to intereft, folly, and abuse.
There is a noon-tide in our lives,

Which ftill the fooner it arrives,
Although we boaft our winter-fun looks bright,
And foolishly are glad to fee it at its height,
Yet fo much fooner comes the long and gloomy night.
No conqueft ever yet begun,

And by one mighty hero carried to its height,
E'er flourish'd under a fucceffor or a fon;

It loft fome mighty pieces through all hands it paft,
And vanish'd to an empty title in the last.
For, when the animating mind is fled
(Which nature never can retain,

Nor e'er call back again),

The body, though gigantic, lies all cold and dead.

XII.

And thus undoubtedly 'twill fare,
With what unhappy men shall dare
To be fucceffors to thefe great unknown,
On Learning's high-establish'd throne.
Cenfure, and Pedantry, and Pride,
Numberless nations, ftretching far and wide,

Shall (I foresee it) foon with Gothic fwarms come forth
From Ignorance's univerfal North,

C 2

And