RIGHT HON. THE EARL OF LITCHFIELD.
LORENZO! to recriminate is just.
Fondness of fame is avarice of air.
I grant the man is vain who writes for praise: Praise no man e'er deserv'd, who sought no more.
As just thy second charge. I grant the Muse Has often blush'd at her degenerate sons, Retain❜d by sense to plead her filthy cause, To raise the low, to magnify the mean, And subtilize the gross into refin'd; As if to magic numbers' powerful charm "Twas given to make a civet of their song Obscene, and sweeten ordure to perfume.
And lifts our swine-enjoyments from the mire.
The fact notorious, nor obscure the cause.
We wear the chains of pleasure and of pride:
These share the man, and these distract him too;
Draw different ways, and clash in their commands.
Pride, like an eagle, builds among the stars;
But Pleasure, lark-like, nests upon the ground.
Joys shar'd by brute-creation Pride resents;
Pleasure embraces: man would both enjoy,
And both at once: a point how hard to gain!
But what can't Wit, when stung by strong desire?
Wit dares attempt this arduous enterprize.
Since joys of sense can't rise to Reason's taste,
In subtle Sophistry's laborious forge
Wit hammers out a reason new, that stoops
To sordid scenes, and meets them with applause.
Wit calls the Graces the chaste zone to loose;
Nor less than a plump god to fill the bowl:
A thousand phantoms and a thousand spells,
A thousand opiates scatters to delude,
To fascinate, inebriate, lay asleep,
And the fool'd mind delightfully confound.
Thus that which shock'd the judgment, shocks no
That which gave Pride offence, no more offends.
Pleasure and Pride, by nature mortal foes,
At war eternal, which in man shall reign,
By Wit's address patch up a fatal peace,
And hand in hand lead on the rank debauch,
From rank refin'd to delicate and gay.
Art, cursed Art! wipes off the' indebted blush
RIGHT HON. THE EARL OF LITCHFIELD.
LORENZO! to recriminate is just.
Fondness of fame is avarice of air.
I grant the man is vain who writes for praise: Praise no man e'er deserv'd, who sought no more
As just thy second charge. I grant the Mus Has often blush'd at her degenerate sons, Retain❜d by sense to plead her filthy cause, To raise the low, to magnify the mean, And subtilize the gross into refin'd; As if to magic numbers' powerful charm 'Twas given to make a civet of their song Obscene, and sweeten ordure to perfume.
And lifts our swine-enjoyments from the mire.
The fact notorious, nor obscure the cause.
We wear the chains of pleasure and of pride:
These share the man, and these distract him too;
Draw different ways, and clash in their commands.
Pride, like an eagle, builds among the stars;
But Pleasure, lark-like, nests upon the ground.
Joys shar'd by brute-creation Pride resents;
Pleasure embraces: man would both enjoy,
And both at once: a point how hard to gain!
But what can't Wit, when stung by strong desire?
Wit dares attempt this arduous enterprize.
Since joys of sense can't rise to Reason's taste,
In subtle Sophistry's laborious forge
Wit hammers out a reason new, that stoops
To sordid scenes, and meets them with applause.
Wit calls the Graces the chaste zone to loose;
Nor less than a plump god to fill the bowl:
A thousand phantoms and a thousand spells,
A thousand opiates scatters to delude,
To fascinate, inebriate, lay asleep,
And the fool'd mind delightfully confound.
Thus that which shock'd the judgment, shocks no
That which gave Pride offence, no more offends.
Pleasure and Pride, by nature mortal foes,
At war eternal, which in man shall reign,
By Wit's address patch up a fatal peace,
And hand in hand lead on the rank debauch,
From rank refin'd to delicate and gay.
Art, cursed Art! wipes off the' indebted blush
Man smiles in ruin, glories in his guilt,
And infamy stands candidate for praise.
All writ by man in favour of the soul,
These sensual ethics far, in bulk, transcend.
The flow'rs of eloquence, profusely pour'd
O'er spotted Vice, fill half the letter'd world.
Can pow'rs of genius exorcise their page,
And consecrate enormities with song?
But let not these inexpiable strains
Condemn the Muse that knows her dignity,
Nor meanly stops at time, but holds the world
As 'tis, in Nature's ample field, a point,
A point in her esteem, from whence to start,
And run the round of universal space,
To visit being universal there,
And being's Source, that utmost flight of mind!
Yet spite of this so vast circumference,
Well knows but what is moral nought is great.
Sing sirens only? do not angels sing?
There is in Poësy a decent pride,
Which well becomes her when she speaks to Prose
Her younger sister, haply not more wise.
Think'st thou, Lorenzo! to find pastimes here
No guilty passion blown into a flame,
No foible flatter'd, dignity disgrac❜d,
No fairy field of fiction, all on flow'r,
No rainbow-colours here, or silken tale;
But solemn counsels, images of awe,
Truths which Eternity lets fall on man,
With double weight, through these revolving
spheres,
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