Were I, who to my Cost already am,
One of those strange, prodigious Creatures Man,
A Spirit free, to chuse for my own Share, }
What Sort of Flesh and Blood I pleas'd to wear, }
I'd be a Dog, a Monkey, or a Bear; }
Or any thing, but that vain Animal,
Who is so proud of being Rational.
The Senses are too gross; and he'll contrive
A sixth, to contradict the other five:
And before certain Instinct, will prefer
Reason, which fifty Times for one does err.
Reason, an Ignis Fatuus of the Mind,
Which leaves the Light of Nature, Sense, behind.
Pathless, and dang'rous, wand'ring Ways it takes,
Thro Error's fenny Boggs, and thorny Brakes:
Whilst the misguided Follower climbs with Pain
Mountains of Whimseys heapt in his own Brain;
Stumbling from Thought to Thought, falls headlong down
Into Doubt's boundless Sea, where like to drown,
Books bear him up a while, and make him try
To swim with Bladders of Philosophy:
In hopes still to o'ertake the skipping Light, }
The Vapour dances in his dazzled Sight, }
Till spent, it leaves him to eternal Night. }
Then old Age and Experience, Hand in Hand,
Lead him to Death, and make him understand,
After a Search so painful, and so long,
That all his Life he has been in the wrong.
Huddled in Dirt the reas'ning Engine lies,
Who was so proud, so witty, and so wise:
Pride drew him in, as Cheats their Bubbles catch,
And made him venture to be made a Wretch:
His Wisdom did his Happiness destroy,
Aiming to know the World he should enjoy.
And Wit was his vain frivolous Pretence,
Of pleasing others at his own Expence.
For Wits are treated just like Common-Whores;
First they're enjoy'd, and then kick'd out of Doors.
The Pleasure past, a threat'ning Doubt remains,
That frights th' Enjoyer with succeeding Pains.
Women, and Men of Wit are dang'rous Tools,
And ever fatal to admiring Fools.
Pleasure allures, and when the Fops escape, }
'Tis not that they're belov'd, but fortunate; }
And therefore what they fear, at Heart they hate. }
But now methinks some formal Band and Beard
Takes me to Task, Come on, Sir, I am prepar'd:
Then by your favour, any thing that's writ
Against this gibing, gingling Knack call'd Wit,
Likes me abundantly; but you'll take Care
Upon this Point not to be too severe:
Perhaps my Muse were fitter for this Part; }
For I profess I can be very smart }
On Wit, which I abhor with all my Heart. }
I long to lash it in some sharp Essay, }
But your grand Indiscretion bids me stay, }
And turns my Tide of Ink another Way. }
What Rage ferments in your degen'rate Mind,
To make you rail at Reason and Mankind?
Blest glorious Man, to whom alone kind Heav'n
An everlasting Soul hath freely giv'n;
Whom his great Maker took such Care to make,
That from himself he did the Image take;
And this fair Frame in shining Reason drest,
To dignify his Nature above Beast.
Reason, by whose aspiring Influence,
We take a Flight beyond Material Sense,
Dive into Mysteries, then soaring pierce
The flaming Limits of the Universe;
Search Heav'n and Hell, find out what's acted there,
And give the World true Grounds of Hope and Fear.
Hold, mighty Man, I cry; all this we know
From the pathetick Pen of Ingelo:
From Patrick's Pilgrim, Sibb's Soliloquies,
And 'tis this very Reason I despise;
This supernat'ral Gift, that makes a Mite
Think he's the Image of the Infinite;
Comparing his short Life, void of all Rest,
To the eternal and the ever-blest:
This busy, puzzling, Stirrer up of Doubt,
That frames deep Mysteries, then finds 'em out,
Filling with frantick Crouds of thinking Fools,
The rev'rend Bedlams, Colleges and Schools,
Born on whose Wings each heavy Sot can pierce
The Limits of the boundless Universe.
So charming Ointments make an old Witch fly,
And bear a crippl'd Carcase thro' the Sky.
'Tis this exalted Pow'r whose Bus'ness lies
In Nonsense and Impossibilities:
This made a whimsical Philosopher,
Before the spacious World his Tub prefer:
And we have many modern Coxcombs who
Retire to think, 'cause they have nought to do.
But Thoughts were giv'n for Action's Government;
Where Action ceases, Thought's impertinent.
Our Sphere of Action is Life's Happiness,
And he that thinks beyond, thinks like an Ass.
Thus whilst against false Reas'ning I inveigh,
I own right Reason, which I would obey;
That Reason which distinguishes by Sense,
And gives us Rules of Good and Ill from thence;
That bounds Desires with a reforming Will,
To keep them more in Vigour, not to kill:
Your Reason hinders, mine helps to enjoy,
Renewing Appetites yours would destroy.
My Reason is my Friend, yours is a Cheat,
Hunger calls out, my Reason bids my eat;
Perversly yours your Appetite do's mock;
This asks for Food, that answers what's't a Clock.
This plain Distinction, Sir, your Doubt secures;
'Tis not true Reason, I despise but yours.
Thus, I think Reason righted: But for Man,
I'll ne'er recant, defend him if you can.
For all his Pride, and his Philosophy, }
'Tis evident Beasts are, in their Degree, }
As wise at least, and better far than he. }
Those Creatures are the wisest, who attain
By surest Means, the Ends at which they aim.
If therefore Jowler finds, and kills his Hare,
Better than Meres supplies Committee Chair;
Tho' one's a Statesman, t'other but a Hound;
Jowler in Justice will be wiser found.
You see how far Man's Wisdom here extends:
Look next if Human Nature makes amends;
Whose Principles are most generous and just,
And to whose Morals you wou'd sooner trust.
Be judge your self, I'll bring it to the Test,
Which is the basest Creature, Man, or Beast:
Birds feed on Birds, Beasts on each other prey,
But savage Man alone do's Man betray.
Prest by Necessity, They kill for Food;
Man undoes Man, to do himself no good.
With Teeth and Claws, by Nature arm'd, They hunt
Nature's Allowance, to supply their Want:
But Man with Smiles, Embraces, Friendships, Praise,
Inhumanly his Fellow's Life betrays;
With voluntary Pains works his Distress;
Not thro' Necessity, but Wantonness.
For Hunger, or for Love, They bite, or tear,
Whilst wretched Man is still in Arms for Fear;
For Fear he arms, and is of Arms afraid;
From Fear to Fear successively betray'd.
Base Fear, the Source whence his best Passions came,
His boasted Honour, and his dear-bought Fame:
The Lust of Pow'r, to which he's such a Slave,
And for the which alone he dares be brave:
To which his various Projects are design'd,
Which makes him gen'rous, affable, and kind:
For which he takes such Pains to be thought wise,
And scrues his Actions in a forc'd Disguise:
Leads a most tedious Life in Misery,
Under laborious, mean Hypocrisy.
Look to the Bottom of his vast Design,
Wherein Man's Wisdom, Pow'r, and Glory join;
The Good he acts, the Ill he do's endure,
'Tis all from Fear, to make himself secure.
Meerly for Safety, after Fame they thirst;
For all Men would be Cowards, if they durst:
And Honesty's against all common Sense,
Men must be Knaves; 'tis in their own Defence
Mankind's dishonest: If they think it fair,
Amongst known Cheats, to play upon the Square,
You'll be undone—
Nor can weak Truth your Reputation save;
The Knaves will all agree to call you Knave.
Wrong'd shall he live, insulted o'er, opprest,
Who dares be less a Villain than the rest.
Thus here you see what Human Nature craves,
Most Men are Cowards, all Men shou'd be Knaves.
The Difference lies, as far as I can see,
Not in the thing it self, but the Degree;
And all the Subject Matter of Debate,
Is only who's a Knave of the first Rate.