The Works of the Right Honourable John Earl of Rochester (Illustrated)

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;
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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:[Pg 4]
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.
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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.[Pg 5]
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.
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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.
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I long to lash it in some sharp Essay,
But your grand Indiscretion bids me stay,
And turns my Tide of Ink another Way.
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What Rage ferments in your degen’rate Mind,
To make you rail at Reason and Mankind?[Pg 6]
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,[Pg 7]
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.