Volume I Part 3 (2/2)

Look where you see 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 these, believe true Fame is there, Far above all reward, yet to which all is due: And this, ye great unknown! is only known in you.

VIII

The juggling sea-G.o.d,[5] when by chance trepann'd By some instructed querist sleeping on the sand, Impatient of all answers, straight became A stealing brook, and strove to creep away Into his native sea, Vex'd at their follies, murmur'd in his stream; But disappointed of his fond desire, Would vanish in a pyramid of fire.

This surly, slippery G.o.d, when he design'd To furnish his escapes, Ne'er borrow'd more variety of shapes Than you, to please and satisfy mankind, And seem (almost) transform'd to water, flame, and air, So well you answer all phenomena there: Though madmen and the wits, philosophers 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 shock your minds with many a senseless doubt; Doubts where the Delphic G.o.d would grope in ignorance and night, The G.o.d of learning and of light Would want a G.o.d himself to help him out.

IX

Philosophy, as it before us lies, Seems to have borrow'd some ungrateful taste Of doubts, impertinence, and niceties, From every age through which it pa.s.s'd, But always with a stronger relish of the last.

This beauteous queen, by Heaven design'd To be the great original For man to dress and polish his uncourtly mind, In what mock habits have they put her since the fall!

More oft in fools' and madmen's hands than sages', She seems a medley of all ages, With a huge farthingale to swell her fustian stuff, A new commode, a topknot, 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 soon have you restored her charms, And rid her of her lumber and her books, Drest 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 Muse 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 s.e.x of hers.

The rebel Muse, 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 friend!

Rather forgive what my first transport said: May all the blood, which shall by woman's scorn be shed, Lie upon you and on your children's head!

For you (ah! did I think I e'er should live to see The fatal time when that could be!) Have even increased their pride and cruelty.

Woman seems now above all vanity grown, Still boasting of her great unknown Platonic champions, gain'd without one female wile, Or the vast charges of a smile; Which 'tis a shame to see how much of late You've taught the covetous wretches to o'errate, And which they've now the consciences to weigh In the same balance with our tears, And with such scanty wages pay The bondage and the slavery of years.

Let the vain s.e.x dream on; the empire comes from us; And had they common generosity, They would not use us thus.

Well--though you've raised her to this high degree, Ourselves are raised as well as she; And, spite of all that they or you can do, 'Tis pride and happiness enough to me, Still to be of the same exalted s.e.x with you.

XI

Alas, how fleeting and how vain Is even the n.o.bler man, our learning and our wit!

I sigh whene'er I think of it: As at the closing an unhappy scene Of some great king and conqueror's death, When the sad melancholy Muse Stays but to catch his utmost breath.

I grieve, this n.o.bler work, most happily begun, So quickly and so wonderfully carried on, May fall at last to interest, folly, and abuse.

There is a noontide in our lives, Which still the sooner it arrives, Although we boast our winter sun looks bright, And foolishly are glad to see it at its height, Yet so much sooner comes the long and gloomy night.

No conquest ever yet begun, And by one mighty hero carried to its height, E'er flourished under a successor or a son; It lost some mighty pieces through all hands it pa.s.s'd, And vanish'd to an empty t.i.tle 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

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