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Yet these love Verse, as Croaking comforts Frogs,[46]
And Mire and Ordure are the Heav’n of Hogs.
As well might Nothing bind Immensity,
Or passive Matter Immaterials see,
As these shou’d write by reason, rhime, and rule,
Or we turn Wit, whom nature doom’d a Fool.
If Dryden err’d, ’twas human frailty once,
But blund’ring is the Essence of a Dunce.

Some write for Glory, but the Phantom fades;
Some write as Party, or as Spleen invades;
A third, because his Father was well read,
And Murd’rer-like, calls Blushes from the dead.
Yet all for Morals and for Arts contend—-
They want’em both, who never prais’d a Friend.
More ill, than dull; For pure stupidity
Was ne’er a crime in honest Banks, or me.

See next a Croud in damasks, silks, and crapes,
Equivocal in dress, half-belles, half-trapes:
A length of night-gown rich Phantasia trails,
Olinda wears one shift, and pares no nails:
Some in C—-l‘s Cabinet each act display,
When nature in a transport dies away:
Some more refin’d transcribe their Opera-loves
On Iv’ry Tablets, or in clean white Gloves:
Some of Platonic, some of carnal Taste,
Hoop’d, or un-hoop’d, ungarter’d, or unlac’d.
Thus thick in Air the wing’d Creation play,
When vernal Phoebus rouls the Light away,
A motley race, half Insects and half Fowls,
Loose-tail’d and dirty, May-flies, Bats, and Owls.

Gods, that this native nonsense was our worst!
With Crimes more deep, O Albion! art thou curst.
No Judgment open Prophanation fears,
For who dreads God, that can preserve his Ears?
Oh save me Providence, from Vice refin’d,
That worst of ills, a Speculative Mind ![47]
Not that I blame divine Philosophy,
(Yet much we risque, for Pride and Learning lye.)
Heav’n’s paths are found by Nature more than Art,
The Schoolman’s Head misleads the Layman’s Heart.

What unrepented Deeds has Albion done?
Yet spare us Heav’n! return, and spare thy own.
Religion vanishes to Types, and Shade,
By Wits, by fools, by her own Sons betray’d!
Sure ’twas enough to give the Dev’l his due,
Must such Men mingle with the Priesthood too?
So stood Onias at th’ Almighty’s Throne,
Profanely cinctur’d in a Harlot’s Zone.

Some Rome, and some the Reformation blame;
‘Tis hard to say from whence such License came;
From fierce Enthusiasts, or Socinians sad?
C—-ns the soft, or Bourignon the mad?
From wayward Nature, or lewd Poet’s Rhimes?
From praying, canting, or king-killing times?
From all the dregs which Gallia cou’d pour forth,
(Those Sons of Schism) landed in the North ?–
From whence it came, they and the D—-l best know,
Yet thus much, Pope, each Atheist is thy Foe.

O Decency, forgive these friendly Rhimes,
For raking in the dunghill of their crimes.
To name each Monster wou’d make Printing dear,
Or tire Ned Ward, who writes six Books a-year.
Such vicious Nonsense, Impudence, and Spite,
Wou’d make a Hermit, or a Father write.
Tho’ Julian rul’d the World, and held no more
Than deist Gildon taught, or Toland swore,
Good Greg’ry [48] prov’d him execrably bad,
And scourg’d his Soul, with drunken Reason mad.
Much longer, Pope restrain’d his awful hand,
Wept o’er poor Niniveh, and her dull band,
‘Till Fools like Weeds rose up, and choak’d the Land.
Long, long he slumber’d e’er th’ avenging hour;
For dubious Mercy half o’er-rul’d his pow’r:
‘Till the wing’d bolt, red-hissing from above
Pierc’d Millions thro’—-For such the Wrath of Jove.
Hell, Chaos, Darkness, tremble at the sound,
And prostrate Fools bestrow the vast Profound:
No Charon wafts ’em from the farther Shore,
Silent they sleep, alas! to rise no more.