FullReads

O thou most gentle Deity appear,
Thou who still hear’st, and yet art prone to hear:
Whose eye ne’er closes, and whose brains ne’er rest,
(Thy own dear Dulness bawling at thy breast)
Attend, O Patience, on thy arm reclin’d,
And see Wit’s endless enemies behind!

And ye, Our Muses, with a hundred tongues,
And Thou, O Henley! blest with brazen lungs ;
Fanatic Withers! fam’d for rhimes and sighs,
And Jacob Behmen! most obscurely wise;
From darkness palpable, on dusky wings
Ascend! and shroud him who your Off-spring sings.

The first with Egypt‘s darkness in his head
Thinks Wit the devil, and curses books unread.
For twice ten winters has he blunder’d on,
Thro’ heavy comments, yet ne’er lost nor won:
Much may be done in twenty winters more,
And let him then learn English at threescore.
No sacred Maro glitters on his shelf,
He wants the mighty Stagyrite himself.
See vast Coimbria‘s comments[40] pil’d on high,
In heaps Soncinas,[41] Sotus, Sanchez lie:
For idle hours, Sa‘s[42] idler casuistry.

Yet worse is he, who in one language read,
Has one eternal jingling in his head,
At night, at morn, in bed, and on the stairs …
Talks flights to grooms, and makes lewd songs at pray’rs
His Pride, a Pun: a Guinea his Reward,
His Critick G-ld-n, Jemmy M-re his Bard.

What artful Hand the Wretch’s Form can hit,
Begot by Satan on a M—-ly‘s Wit:
In Parties furious at the great Man’s nod,
And hating none for nothing, but his God:
Foe to the Learn’d, the Virtuous, and the Sage,
A Pimp in Youth, an Atheist in old Age:
Now plung’d in Bawdry and substantial Lyes,
Now dab’ling in ungodly Theories;
But so, as Swallows skim the pleasing flood,
Grows giddy, but ne’er drinks to do him good:
Alike resolv’d to flatter, or to cheat,
Nay worship Onions, if they cry, come eat :
A foe to Faith, in Revelation blind,
And impious much, as Dunces are by kind.

Next see the Master-piece of Flatt’ry rise,
Th’ anointed Son of Dulness and of Lies:
Whose softest Whisper fills a Patron’s Ear,
Who smiles unpleas’d, and mourns without a tear.[43]
Persuasive, tho’ a woful Blockhead he:
Truth dies before his shadowy Sophistry.
For well he knows[44] the Vices of the Town,
The Schemes of State, and Int’rest of the Gown;
Immoral Afternoons, indecent Nights,
Enflaming Wines, and second Appetites.

But most the Theatres with dulness groan,
Embrio’s half-form’d, a Progeny unknown:
Fine things for nothing, transports out of season,
Effects un-caus’d, and murders without reason.
Here Worlds run round, and Years are taught to stay,
Each Scene an Elegy, each Act a Play.[45]
Can the same Pow’r such various Passions move?
Rejoice, or weep, ’tis ev’ry thing for Love.
The self-same Cause produces Heav’n and Hell:
Things contrary as Buckets in a Well;
One up, one down, one empty, and one full:
Half high, half low, half witty, and half dull.
So on the borders of an ancient Wood,
Or where some Poplar trembles o’er the Flood,
Arachne travels on her filmy thread,
Now high, now low, or on her feet or head.