  I. My humble Muse no Hero Sings, Nor Acts, nor Funerals of Kings: The great Maria now no more, In Sable Lines she does deplore; Of mighty William's growing fame, At present must forget the name, Yet she affects something that is sublime, And would in Dytherambick strain } Attempt to rise, and now disdain The Shrubs and Furzes of the Plain: He that's afraid to fall, shou'd ne'r pretend to climb. II. Let others boast of potent Wit, And Summon in the awful Nine, With all their Aids of Fancy, Humor, Sence, Fair polish'd Learning, Eloquence, And call their gawdy works Divine: Hov'ring above my Head let dullness sit, The only God that's worshipp'd by the Age; Immortal Nonsence guide my Pen, The Fames of Shakespear and of Ben, Must warp, before my nobler fire To their regardless Tombs retire. Thus Arm'd, with Nonsence, I'll engage Both Universities, And their Pedantick fooleries, Show the misguided World the Cheat, And let Man know that Nonsence makes him Great. III. Almighty Folly! How shall I thy praise To Human Understandings raise? What shall I do Thy worth to shew? Gives vital warmth and life by ev'ry Ray. His Blessings he in common grants, To Hemlock as to nobler Plants; Thy Virtue thou dost circumscribe, And dost dispence Thy influence, But to the Darlings of thy Tribe, Thou Wealth and Honour dost bestow On thy triumphant Fools, Whilst abject Sence do's barefoot go; So weak's the Learning of the noisie Schools. IV. Tell me, ye Learned Sots! who spend your time In reading Books, With thoughtful Heads and meagre Looks, To Learnings Pinacle, who climb Through the wild Briers of Philosophy, The Thorns of harsh Philology, The dirty Road where Aristotle went Encumber'd with a thousand terms Uncouth, Unintelligible, Not by any fancy fathomable, Bringing distracted Minds to harms; The rankest Hellebore cannot prevent. Did e'r the old or new Philosophy, Make a Man splendid live, or wealthy die? Tho' you may think your Notions truer, They'll ne'r advance your Lotts, To the Estate of Wise Sir Jonathan the Brewer. V. A Fool! Heav'ns bless the charming Name, So much admir'd in Ages past, As long as this, and all the World shall last, Shall be the Subject of Triumphing Fame. A Fool! what mighty wonders has he wrought? What mighty Actions done? Obey'd by all, controul'd by none; Even Love its self is to its Footstool brought. For t'other day, I met amidst the Throng A Lady wealthy, beautiful and young; Madam, said I, I wish you double Joy, Of a ripe Husband and a budding Boy, And with my self a sight of him you Wed, } The happy Part'ner of your Bridal Bed. Sir, she reply'd, I him in Wedlock had; Pointing unto an Image by her side, An odder Figure no Man e'r espy'd, His Eyes sunk in, and high his Nose was rear'd, A nauseous ugliness possess'd the Tool, And scarce had Wit enough to be a Fool: Bless me (thought I) if Fools such fortune get, Then who (the Devil) wou'd be plagu'd with wit. VI. View but the Realms of Nonsence, see the State, The Pageant pomp attends the show, When the great God of Dullness does in triumph go, How splendid and how great His num'rous Train of Blockheads do appear? Almighty Jove, That governs all above, Is but a puny to this Mighty God, The blustring God of War, Who with one Nod Makes the Earth tremble from afar, Guarded with puissant Champions stern and bold That breath Destruction, talk of bloody Jars, Have nought but ragged Cloaths to keep off cold, And tatter'd Ensigns relicks of the Wars. Beneath a Canopy Of fix'd stupidity, Prostrate his num'rous Subjects tumble down, They pay obeisance to their gloomy God, And at his Nod They act, they move, They hate, they love, They bless, they curse, they swear, For they his Creatures are, He amply does his Benefits afford, For each confirmed Blockhead is a Lord. VII. Then talk no more of Parts and Sence, For Riches ne'r attend the Wise, Have you to dullness no pretence, You shall to Grandeur never rise; He with a gloomy mien Divinely dull, Whose very aspect tells the World he is a Fool, Whose thicker Skull Is proof against each storm of Fate, Is Born for Glory, and he shall be Great. Or great Preferment get, Must nere pretend to Wit, Or be that monstrous, ill shap'd Man call'd Wise; He must not boast Of Learning's Value, or its cost; But, if he wou'd Preferment have, He must be much a Fool, or much a Knave. VIII. A Knave! the finer Creature far, Tho' of the foolish Race of Issachar. As the unwieldy Bear among her young Deform'd, and shapeless Cubs, Finds one more strong, Active and sprightly than the rest: Him she transforms and rubs, And licks into a better shape the Beast. Thus do's the gloomy God of Folly do, With the insipid Race: He do's his num'rous Offspring call, } He handles one and feels his Skull; If it be thick, he says, Be thou a Fool. Another, if about his Face He spies a roguish Mein, a cunning Look; The hopes of Falshood in his tender Years, Good signs of Perjury And hardn'd Villany; This for his secret Councils he do's save, Lays on his Paw, and bids him, Be a Knave. IX. A Knave! the elder brother to the Fool: His vast Dominions are no less Than the whole Universe: The Lands are bounded by the Sea: The Seas the sturdy Rocks obey: The Storms do know the Limits of their Rule: Neither the Land nor Sea this Hero bind, But unconfin'd O're both he finds a way, O're both he bears Imperial sway: His gay Attendants are the Cheat, That ruines Kingdoms to be Great. Just like a Spaniel at your Heels, To some illustrious Knave, who sweeps Away a Kingdoms Wealth at once, And with the Publick Coin his Treasure fills; For Kingdoms work t'enrich the Knave and Dunce. X. Honesty's a Garb we're mock'd in, Only wore by Jews and Turks. Merit is a Popish Doctrine; Men have no regard to Works. Substantial Knavery is a Vertue will Your Coffers fill; And Altars raise, Unto your Praise. Be but a Knave, you'll keep the World in awe, And fear no Law; For no Transgression is, Where all Men do amiss. But here methinks an antiquated Hero starts, Surpris'd at my Discourse; He starts and boggles like a Horse, And damns our modern Knavish Arts. XI. Vain Youth, he says misguided by a Knave, By some dull Blockhead tempted from thy rest; The worldly Grandeur thou dost vainly crave, Is nought but Noise and Foolishness at best. What Man wou'd quit his Sense, Or, the wise Dictates of right Reason's Rule, In vain pretence To be a rich, a gawdy Fool? Or, quit his Honesty, so much despis'd, And basely condescend, To every little Knavish End; Run headlong into every Cheat, Attempt each Villany to make him Great. Believe me Youth, (be better now advis'd) Thy early Vertues will thy Temples spread, } With lasting Lawrels 'round thy Head. Shall flourish when the Wearers dead. I who have always honest been, though poor, In whom the utmost signs of Age appears, And sink beneath the Burthen of my Years, Cou'd never yet adore A Knave or Blockhead, were he ne'er so Great; Or, be like to them, to purchase an Estate. XII. Poor thredbare Vertue ne'er admir'd in Court, But seeks its Refuge in an honest Mind, There it securely dwells, Like Anchorets in Cells, Where no Ambition nor wild Lust resorts: To love our Country is indeed our Pride; We glory in an honest Action done; When the Reward is laid aside The Glory and the Action is our own, We seldom find The Good, the Just, the Brave, Have their Reward From Princes they did save From dire Destruction, or a poisoning Foe; They let them go Contemn'd, disdain'd; and most regard Those Villians sought their overthrow. As if the Just, the Brave, the Good, Were but a Bridge of Wood To waft to great Preferments o'er, Those, who were our foes before, While those, who just pass'd o'er, And the obliging Bridge shou'd thank, Do scornfully stand grinning on the Bank, To see the venerable Ruines float Adrift upon the Stream, Contemn'd by them, Who give the Childrens Bread unto the Dogs; In vain, says he, we've fought—— But at this Word He fiercely look'd, and then he grasp'd his Sword. XIII. Pity it is, he said, this Sword of mine, Of late so gloriously did shine, In Foreign Fields 'midst Show'rs of Blood, With which I've cut my Passage through The Snowy Alps and Pyrenean Hills, Where Death the Land with vast Destruction fills, 'Mongst Warriors, who Venture their Lives for their dear Countries good, Should now be laid aside From reaking Blood scarce cold; Or else converted to a Knife, For some damn'd Villain first to cut A Princes Bread, and next his Throat: In vain we venture to preserve his Life, In vain to Foreign Fields we come, In vain to Foreign Force alli'd, If a nefarious Brood at Home Embarrass his Affairs, Prolong the Wars, Only t' enrich his Enemies, Weaken his Government, and his Allies. XIV. 'Tis strange a Prince, shou'd ere a Fool preferr, To be an Officer! A Knave may serve an unjust Government, But ne'er prevent Those Mischiefs may attend the just: For who would trust A Villain may be bought by Gold, Unless design'd on purpose to be sold? If Princes wou'd use Fools as Shop-men do Their Signs or Boards of show, Within, 'tis rational enough. But to set Centry at the Door, } A Patriot or a Senator, Philosopher or Orator, To tell the Passers by their is within, A Merry Andrew to be seen, Is very much ridiculous, Tho' to our grief we often find it thus. Thus Princes Bastardize Their Countries Sons Legitimate, And give the fair Estate Unto a Spurious Brood, That ne'er did good; The honest Work, the Knave enjoys the Prize. XV. A Government adorn'd with Fools, Empty Trifles, useless Tools, Looks like a Toy-Shop gloriously bedeckt With gawdy gewgaws, Childrens play things, Painted Babies, Tinsel Creatures, Wooden Folk, with Human features, Made just for show, and no advantage brings, And prove of no effect. In which no Man must act a Part But the dull Blockhead and the Beau, The huffing Fop without a Heart; What Wise Man would a Journey take On a dull Steed has broke his Back? Or have recourse Unto a Hobby-Horse? Those act by such wise Rules, Who prop Just Princes by a Tyrant's Tools. XVI. Surely the Genius of a fruitful Isle Is either lost, Or what is worst, Murder'd by those who shou'd support her Fame, Add Glory to her Name; The Heavens themselves have cast an angry look, Seldom the Glorious Sun does shine But Veils its face Divine. Jove does misguide the Seasons every Year; Nought can we read in Nature's Book, To reap her Fruits scarce worth our while. From whose unhappy Womb, We Mortals come, Ne'er shows a Glorious Birth, But proves abortive as our Actions are; Nought have we left but hope, Just like the Blind at Noon we grope: The number of our Sins we must fulfil, And if we're sav'd, it is against our will. F I N I S.THE |
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