But though to tire the ear's sufficient curse,
To tire one's patience is a plague still worse.
Prato, a formal sage, debates with care,
A strong opponent, take him up who dare.
His words are grave, deliberate, and cool,
He looks so wise-'tis pity he's a fool.
If he asserts, though what no man can doubt,
He'll bring ten thousand proofs to make it out.
This, this, and this-is so, and so, and so;
And therefore, therefore-that, and that, you know,
Circles no angles have; a square has four :
A square's no circle therefore-to be sure.
The sum of Prato's wond'rous wisdom is,
This is not that, and therefore, that not this.
Opposed to him, but much the greater dunce,
Is he who throws all knowledge off at once.
The first, for every trifle will contend;
But this has no opinions to defend.
In fire no heat, no sweetness in the rose;
The man's imposed on by his very nose :
Nor light nor colour charms his doubting eye,
The world's a dream, and all his senses lie.
He thinks, yet doubts if he's possess'd of thought; 65
Nay, even doubts his very power to doubt.
Ask him if he's a man, or beast, or bird;
He cannot tell, upon his honest word.
'Tis strange, so plain a point's so hard to prove ; I'll tell you what you are-a fool, by Jove.
Another class of disputants there are,
More numerous than the doubting tribe by far.
These are your wanderers, who from the point
Run wild in loose harangues, all out of joint.
Vagarius, and confute him if you can,
Will hold debate with any mortal man.
He roves from Genesis to Revelations,
And quite confounds you with divine quotations.
Nor head nor tail his argument affords,
A jumbling, incoherent mass of words;
Most of them true, but so together toss'd
Without connection, that their sense is lost.
But leaving these to rove, and those to doubt, Another clan alarm us; face about :
See, arm'd with grave authority they come, 85
And with great names and numbers strike us dumb.
With these an error venerable appears,
For having been believed three thousand years.
Reason, nay common sense, to names must fall,
And strength of argument's no strength at all.
But on, my muse, though multitudes oppose us,
Alas! truth is not proved by counting noses :
Nor fear, though ancient sages are subjoin'd;
A lie's a lie, though told by all mankind.
'Tis true, I love the ancients-but what then?
Plato and Aristotle were but men.
I grant them wise-the wisest disagree,
And therefore no sufficient guides for me.
An error, though by half the world espoused,
Is still an error, and may be opposed;
And truth, though much from mortal eyes conceal'd,
Is still the truth, and may be more reveal'd.
How foolish then will look your mighty wise,
Should half their ipse dixits prove plain lies!
But on, my muse, another tribe demands Thy censure yet : nor should they 'scape thy hands. These are the passionate; who in dispute,
Demand submission, monarchs absolute.
Sole judges, in their own conceit, of wit,
They damn all those for fools that won't submit. 110
Sir Testy (thwart Sir Testy if you dare)
Swears there's inhabitants in every star.
If you presume to say this mayn't be true,
You lie, sir, you're a fool and blockhead too.
What he asserts, if any disbelieve,
How folks can be so dull he can't conceive.
He knows he's right; he knows his judgment's
But men are so perverse they will not hear.
With him, Swift treads a dull trite beaten way;
In Young no wit, no humour smiles in Gay;
Nor truth, nor virtue, Pope, adorns thy page;
And Thomson's "Liberty" corrupts the age.
This to deny, if any dare presume,
Fool, coxcomb, sot, and puppy fill the room.
Hillario, who full well this humour knows,
Resolved one day his folly to expose,
Kindly invites him with some friends to dine,
And entertains them with a roast sir-loin:
Of this he knew Sir Testy could not eat,
And purposely prepared it for his treat.
The rest begin-" Sir Testy, pray fall to-
You love roast beef, sir,-come-I know you do." "Excuse me, sir, 'tis what I never eat."
How, sir! not love roast beef! the king of meat!" "'Tis true indeed." "Indeed it is not true;
I love it, sir, and you must love it too."
"I can't upon my word." "Then you're a fool,
And don't know what's good eating, by my soul !
"Not love roast beef!-come, come, sirs, fill his plate
I'll make him love it-Sir, confound ye, eat."
Sir Testy finding what it was they meant,
Rose in a passion, and away he went.
FROM THE "ESSAY ON CRITICISM.”
Of all the causes which conspire to blind
Man's erring judgment, and misguide the mind,
What the weak head with strongest bias rules;
Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools.
Pride, where wit fails, steps in to our defence,
And fills up all the mighty void of sense.
If once right reason drives that cloud away,
Truth breaks upon us with resistless day.
Trust not yourself; but your defects to know,
Make use of every friend—and every foe.
A little learning is a dangerous thing!
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring ;
There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,
And drinking largely sobers us again.
Fir'd at first sight with what the muse imparts, 15
In fearless youth we tempt the heights of arts,
While from the bounded level of our mind,
Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind;
But more advanc'd, behold with strange surprise
New distant scenes of endless science rise!
So pleas'd at first the towering Alps we try,
Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky!
The eternal snows appear all ready pass'd,
And the first clouds and mountains seem the last :
But those attain'd, we tremble to survey
The growing labours of the lengthen'd way:
The increasing prospect tires our wandering eyes,
Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise !
HEAV'N from all creatures hides the book of fate,
All but the page prescrib'd, their present state;
From brutes, what men, from men, what spirits know;
Or who could suffer being here below?
The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day,
Had he thy reason, would he skip and play?
Pleas'd to the last, he crops the flowery food,
And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood.
O blindness to the future! kindly giv'n,
That each may fill the circle mark'd by Heaven,
Who sees with equal eye, as God of all,
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall;
Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd,
And now a bubble burst, and now a world.
Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar; Wait the great teacher Death; and God adore. 16
What future bliss He gives not thee to know,
But gives that hope to be thy blessing now.
Hope springs eternal in the human breast:
Man never is, but always to be blest.
The soul, uneasy, and confin'd from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.
Lo! the poor Indian ! whose untutor'd mind
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind :
His soul proud science never taught to stray
Far as the solar walk, or milky way;
Yet simple nature to his hope has giv’n,
Behind the cloud-topt hill, an humbler heav'n;
Some safer world in depth of woods embrac'd,
Some happier island in the watery waste;
Where slaves once more their native land behold,
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold.
To be, contents his natural desire;
He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire:
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky,
His faithful dog shall bear him company.
Go, wiser thou! and, in thy scale of sense,
Weigh thy opinion against Providence ;
Call imperfection what thou fanc'st such;
Say, Here He gives too little, there too much! 40
Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust,
Yet cry, If man's unhappy, God's unjust;
If man alone ingross not Heav'n's high care,
Alone made perfect here, immortal there.
Snatch from His hand the balance and the rod, 45
Re-judge His justice, be the god of God.
In pride, in reas'ning pride, our error lies;
All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies.
Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes ;
Men would be angels, angels would be gods.
Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell,
Aspiring to be angels, men rebel :
And who but wishes to invert the laws
Of order, sins against th' Eternal Cause.
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